


Purple Haze

by rose_malmaison



Category: NCIS
Genre: Breathing issues, Case Fic, Crossover, Established Relationship, Explosion, FBI, Fallout, Healing, Health Concerns, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mass Casualties, No Ziva, Quarantine, Sickness, bau, criminal minds - Freeform, season 6, semi-apocalyptic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-13 04:48:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18933742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rose_malmaison/pseuds/rose_malmaison
Summary: A dead Navy officer, an FBI-BAU case involving missing scientists, and a huge explosion affects the lives of Tony and Gibbs. Tony is badly hurt, but he and the team are quarantined due to the catastrophe. FBI agents Rossi and Reid, and Tony's colleagues, race against time to get Tony help and to solve the ongoing mystery while in the midst of the crisis.





	1. Being Together

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firesign10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firesign10/gifts).



> By the way, I just noticed that this is my one hundredth story posted here at AO3!  
> I’d like to thank Jacie3 for running the NCIS Reverse Bang.  
> Many thanks to my incredible, insightful beta, Firesign10!  
> And, of course, thanks to Penumbria for creating the beautiful Purple Haze Tony cover art!

 

 **Purple Haze  
**Jimi Hendrix 

 _Purple Haze was in my brain,_  
lately things don't seem the same,  
actin' funny but I don't know why  
'Scuse me while I kiss the sky. 

_Purple Haze all around,_  
don't know if I'm coming up or down.  
Am I happy or in misery?  
Whatever it is, that girl put a spell on me.

 _Purple Haze was in my eyes,_  
don't know if it's day or night,  
you've got me blowing, blowing my mind  
is it tomorrow or just the end of time? 

 **◊ • ◊ • ◊ •** **◊**

 

**CHAPTER 1 - BEING TOGETHER**

**_February 2009_ **

 

They arrived in Dulles, wind-burned and saddle-sore after chasing down Special Agent Jack Patterson’s killer in Arizona. Dark clouds hovered overhead when they exited the terminal, and there was a low rumble of thunder somewhere to the west. The first drops of rain started to fall as Tony and Gibbs hastened across the huge airport parking lot. They were only partway to Gibbs’ truck when lightning cracked overhead, way too close for comfort – and the heavens opened up. They made a mad dash through the sudden downpour, but by the time they clambered into the truck, both of them were soaked to the skin.

 

With a laugh, Tony shook his head like a dog, spraying water droplets everywhere. Gibbs joined in, laughing for no other reason than the storm was unexpectedly intense, and Tony was smiling at him in a way he’d never seen before, so open and happy it made his heart beat fast. Gibbs reached over and brushed strands of wet hair off Tony’s forehead. Their eyes met, the laughter died, and all of a sudden it was as if someone had thrown a switch. Neither of them could ever say who made the first move: Gibbs reached for Tony, Tony leaned towards him, and they ended up in a scorching hot embrace. They kissed like a couple of crazy people, their long-denied passion flaring brightly. Gibbs tangled his fingers in Tony’s hair, and Tony clutched at his shoulders, moaning and opening up to him in a way he had only dreamed of.

 

They finally broke apart, breathing hard. Gibbs could feel the heat rising all the way up to the tips of his ears; desire – and embarrassment – did that to him. Tony stared at him with big dark eyes, his lips red and shiny with saliva, and all Gibbs could think was, Jesus, he was in deep trouble if all it took was a kiss to make him lose his mind.

 

Gibbs choked out, “Home,” and Tony breathlessly replied, “Okay.”

 

 **◊ • ◊ • ◊ •** **◊**

 

The next morning, Jethro woke up with his legs entwined in Tony’s, his arm slung across Tony’s waist. He was warm and happy, so he didn’t move, but his dick was hardening against Tony’s naked ass, and he knew he had to either act on it or retreat. Before he could make a decision either way, Tony stirred and stretched. A second later, the younger man tensed up, probably realizing where he was, and what they’d done. “Hey, it’s okay,” Jethro said. He ran his hand down Tony’s bare back, loving the feel of his silky skin.

 

Apparently that wasn’t the right thing to do because Tony jumped out of bed, stared at him wide-eyed, and ran into the bathroom. Jethro sighed as he heard Tony groaning from behind the closed door, “Oh fuck, fuck, I had sex with the boss! What was I thinking?”

 

Having sex with Tony – and sleeping in each other’s arms through the night – was a dream come true for Gibbs, a fucking fantasy, the kind that never lasted. It looked like Tony didn’t feel the same way, he thought unhappily. Unsure of what to say (“It was great, Tony,” or “I’ve never come so many fucking times in one night,” or even, “Stay with me,” even if it sounded as sappy as hell), Jethro leaned against the bathroom door, and said, “Gonna start the coffee.” If Tony heard him, he gave no sign.

 

 **◊ • ◊ • ◊ •** **◊**

 

Jethro realized he’d been looking blankly at the meager contents of his fridge for several minutes. He took a deep breath and told himself to get his act together. This was important. _Tony_ was important. But then he muttered, “Hell, it’s just breakfast, not the Last Supper,” and started pulling out milk and eggs, checking nothing had spoiled while they were away.

 

He succeeded in putting together a decent omelet, and was placing a bowl of sugar and Tony’s creamer, which he just happened to have on hand, on the kitchen table, when Tony appeared in the doorway.

 

Freshly showered and dressed in clean clothing from his travel bag, Tony sauntered in barefoot, acting as if nothing intimate had happened between them last night. At Jethro’s invitation, he took a seat, and after a tentative bite of the hot omelet in front of him, he dug in as if he was starving. Tony glanced up and caught Jethro smirking at him, and said sheepishly, “Having sex makes me really hungry.”

 

What the hell could he say in response to a statement like that? _And_ _I’m still hungry for you._ Instead, Jethro nodded at the coffee and asked, “That okay?”

 

Tony took a sip and smiled. “Really good. Just the way I like it. Robust yet sweet.”

 

Their eyes met and Tony smiled like a smug alley cat. Damn, he was so fucking handsome, and Jethro couldn't stop himself from staring. Last night had been what Tony had called, at one point, action-packed. They’d kissed and sucked and fucked, front and back, shouted and moaned, and cried out in pain and ecstasy. They’d fought over who’d be on top each time, and acted as if it was the end of the world and they had to cram everything into that one night. Jethro wasn’t sure how it was that Tony was able to sit down without wincing. His own ass was pretty sore, so he could imagine what Tony’s must be like. Hell, just thinking about Tony’s ass was making him hard. As soon as they’d finished, Jethro cleared his throat and motioned towards Tony’s empty plate. “You want more?”

 

Tony gave Jethro a look from under his eyelashes that was both sultry and promising. “I always want more, but I’ve gotta say, I’m finding myself unusually satisfied this morning.”

 

Jethro’s cheeks grew hot and he caught Tony’s amused expression. He hadn’t been a blusher since his teens, but it seemed like he’d done nothing but color up since that first kiss in his truck. The rain pounding on the roof, the sheets of water obscuring the windshield, had made Gibbs feel they were secluded from the everyday world. “Glad to oblige,” he managed to say, wishing they could be cut off from the world just a little longer.

 

Tony shrugged and smiled, and okay, Jethro knew he was wearing a smug expression too, like a teenager after his first ever make-out session with the pretty girl next door. Only Tony was no teenager, and he certainly wasn’t a girl, either. Unsure what the next step was, Jethro rose to his feet, intending to dump the dishes in the sink, but just as he reached for Tony’s plate, the younger man bounced out of his seat and pulled him into a hug, and _that_ led to some really hot making out, and _that_ led to Jethro fucking Tony over the kitchen table until they both shouted and came. For some reason, that seemed to make everything all right between them again.

 

 **◊ • ◊ • ◊ •** **◊**

  

Unfortunately, they had to go to work. No way around it. So they cleaned up, got dressed and went in to the Navy Yard, acting as if it was a normal day at the office. McGee helped them tie up some loose ends with the Arizona Sheriff’s Department, and they got their reports on the apprehension of Special Agent Patterson’s killer completed and filed by late afternoon. The whole time they both managed to behave as if nothing had happened between them, that they hadn’t had sex – lots of it – and they weren’t aching for their shift to be over so they could have a repeat of last night.

 

Or at least Gibbs assumed Tony felt the same way. It was hard to tell, the way Tony was able to keep a completely professional demeanor; there wasn’t even a hint of familiarity in his eyes when they talked, not even when it was just the two of them.

 

At five, when Gibbs told the team to go home, McGee said good night and headed for the elevator. Tony said a quick, “Night, Boss,” and practically ran after him without so much as a glance at Gibbs. He was talking and laughing with McGee as the elevator doors slid closed, making Gibbs wonder if he’d imagined last night or what.

 

Swallowing his disappointment and asking himself, _What the hell did you expect?_ , Gibbs went home, grilled himself a steak and sat alone at the dining room table while the light faded around him. He was on his second beer and about to start in on a bottle of Jack when his front door opened and in walked Tony. “You leave any for me? I’m starving,” he called out.

 

In a second, Gibbs was up and pulling Tony into his arms, incredibly pissed and happy at the same time. “Where the hell were you?”

 

“I had to go for a drink with McGee. We can’t let anyone know about us, can we?” Tony hugged him, one hand on the back of his head in a comforting gesture. He sought out Jethro’s mouth and kissed him deeply, and when their lips parted, Jethro released a groan of relief.

 

“I thought… maybe you didn’t want to...”

 

Tony admonished, “Really? Don’t assume.” He held Jethro’s face in his hands and kissed him again, mouth open and demanding. Slick tongues battled, and Jethro nipped at Tony’s bottom lip, eliciting a breathy groan from him. He could feel Tony’s erection against his thigh, and he reached down to press his palm against his lover’s jeans. Tony gasped and broke the kiss. “Don’t! I’ll come right here if you do that. I want…”

 

“What d’you want?” Jethro asked in a husky voice.

 

Tony said, “I want you and me to be… you know, together.”

 

“Aren’t we together?” Jethro teased.

 

“We are now but…”

 

“You want more than just now?” Jethro asked hopefully.

 

Tony studied his face, and then smiled. “Yeah, I do. I want it more than anything.”

 

“So then we’re together,” Jethro said, with a slight shrug, as if it were a done deal.

 

“We’re _together_ ,” Tony said, as though being together was a wondrous thing.

 

Jethro suggested, “We could be a lot more _together_ upstairs…”

 

Tony smiled. “Then what the hell are we waiting for?” He grabbed Jethro’s hand and practically dragged him upstairs. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”

 

Jethro chuckled. “Oh yeah, I think I do.”

 

 **◊ • ◊ • ◊ •** **◊**

 

**_April 2009, two months later_ **

 

To Jethro’s surprise, things fell easily into place. He and Tony found a balance between work and home life, and so far, none of their friends or co-workers seemed any the wiser. Everything wasn’t perfect, but they were damned good together. Jethro did everything in his power to ensure that Tony felt loved and wanted. And Tony… well, Tony knew exactly when to give him space, and when to wrap his arms around him and take him to bed, telling him in a sexy, low voice how much he wanted him. Even though they’d only been together for a little while, Jethro wondered how he’d ever managed to live without him.

 

Jethro was determined to be a good partner to Tony, and he was well aware that meant he had to work hard at his communication skills. He had been a poor excuse for a husband to his last three wives, and he knew why the marriages had gone wrong. They had tried to change him, had expected too much of his time and attention, too much of himself – but on the flip side, he’d been stubborn and selfish, and he had held back from fully committing to any of them. No spouse ever wants to believe the job always comes first, but once that unhappy dose of reality sunk in, his last three marriages quickly hit the skids.

 

Rebecca, had been the only wife to know about Jethro’s previous relationships with men. She had been jealous of every man he spent time with, including work colleagues, even if they were straight. Jethro would never have cheated on her, but, as it turned out, _she_ had no such code of ethics.

 

He would not make the same mistakes with Tony, Jethro vowed. He would not take their relationship for granted; he would show affection and be open with him; he would listen and heed Tony’s needs. They may not have said they love each other, not outright, not yet, but this was a partnership they were both invested in.

 

Being together felt good, and, as sappy as it sounded, simply waking up next to Tony in the morning brought a smile to Jethro’s face. The two men spent most of their off-duty hours at Jethro’s home, but sleeping at Tony’s condo had its advantages because nobody ever disturbed them there. Tony had always been very private about what he called his ‘sanctuary,’ and he had never invited any of his colleagues into his home. Visitors had to get past a security checkpoint and a linebacker-sized doorman in order to get to the elevator, so the pre-war building was safe and secure, just the way Tony liked it.

 

It was good to have a refuge from the violent and ugly world they had to deal with every day at work. Plus, Tony liked to cook in his own kitchen where all the gadgets he needed were at hand. Tony loved cooking from scratch, and he made a mean pasta dish, but he’d also proven himself skilled at creating amazing desserts. Even his coffee machine brewed a far better cup of joe than Jethro’s did.

 

They had been going back and forth between their two homes for a couple of months when one day, a pasta maker appeared on Jethro’s kitchen counter. He didn’t say anything about it, not even when Tony sent him an inquiring look to see if he was overstepping his bounds. Soon after that, a fancy new coffee machine – the same brand as Tony’s – had replaced the old one. And, a short time later, Jethro opened his pantry to find it stocked to the hilt with foodstuffs he’d never seen there before: sea salt, expensive olive oil, agave syrup, cocoa and marshmallows, ginger root, roasted achaar, buckwheat honey and something called Delfino Colatura di Alici di Cetara.

 

Jethro picked up a piece of ginger and inhaled its tangy scent. From close behind him Tony asked, “This okay with you?”

 

Leaning back against his partner’s firm body, Jethro said, “Looks like someone is planning on doing some cooking.”

 

“Yeah, just a few things I need. I don’t want to push…”

 

“It’s your kitchen, too.”

 

“It is? You sure it’s okay?”

 

Jethro turned within the circle of Tony’s arms. “Move in with me. Look, you’re here almost every night anyway.”

 

Instead of immediately agreeing, as Jethro had expected, Tony shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

 

Jethro was hurt by the rejection. “Too soon?”

 

“It’s one thing being together for food and sex, but we’ve both been on our best behavior so far and… well, I don’t want to rock the boat. I know you think it’ll all be good, but you need your boat and bourbon time, and I know I’ll be too much for you, and you’ll get pissed and. . .”

 

Jethro raised a hand to cup the younger man’s cheek, wishing he could do something to banish the reluctance in Tony’s eyes. “You’re never too much for me. Promise me you’ll think about it, okay?”

 

“Okay.” Tony’s smile was tentative. “I’ve never lived with anyone, unless you count a week at Myrtle Beach with the Campocino sisters, and. . . I don’t want to mess this up.”

 

“You won’t.” Jethro gave him a soft kiss behind his ear.

 

“You don’t know that.”

 

“We’re in this together, right? We’ll work it out,” Jethro said calmly. “Keep your condo if you need to, but sleep with me. I don’t like sleeping alone,” he admitted. You’d have thought that seeing each other at work and also at home would make the two of them fed up with each other, but it didn’t work out like that. They enjoyed living as a couple, doing ordinary things like home repairs, cooking, and making the most of what little leisure time they had together. To him, living together was the natural next step. “Try it out. Please.” See, he’d even managed to say ‘please’ without choking on it.

 

“I’ll try not to get in your hair,” Tony promised. “I’ll pick up my wet towels and I won’t drink OJ straight outta the carton, and I…”

 

Jethro shushed Tony with a finger to his lips. “And if I do something that bothers you, you tell me. This works both ways, you know.” He took a breath and said cautiously, “There is something we have to talk about first…”

 

“What?” Tony asked warily.

 

Jethro shifted his weight and said, “I have to ask you one question, and it’s really important you’re truthful.”

 

Tony’s tensed up in anticipation of hearing something bad. “Okay, ask me.”

 

Holding up the large piece of ginger root still in his hand, Jethro asked, “Is this the stuff that burns when you stick it up your ass?” Tony, rendered silent, slowly nodded. Jethro grinned and said, “Good. Can we try it out tonight? Because I really want to see you squirm.”

 

 **◊ • ◊ • ◊ •** **◊**

 


	2. Recovery

CHAPTER 2 - RECOVERY

_Friday, July 24, 2009, three months later_

 

Gibbs woke up early, before the alarm went off. He sat on the edge of the bed and massaged his right shoulder, groaning a little. He’d wrenched it a week ago and it still hurt like crap if he moved his arm the wrong way. Thank God he hadn’t dislocated it; recovery would have been months. As it was, his orthopedist was talking about surgery, saying it was likely to be necessary if he damaged it again. Geez, it was depressing getting old.

 

Moving slowly, he headed for the bathroom. A hot shower and a rub with some of that odorless liniment Tony had given him would do the trick – he hoped. When Tony had given him the big tube of AsperJoint, he’d made a comment along the lines of: “This is so you don’t smell like an old man.” Gibbs had been a little annoyed at first, but he’d used the stuff, and in addition to being odorless, as advertised, it definitely helped relieve some of the pain.

 

He hated that some mornings he felt brittle, with shooting pains and stiff joints, unwelcome reminders of a host of combat- and work-related injuries: the shrapnel-torn knee, a bullet wound in his shoulder from that bastard Ari, another in his back – courtesy of a Colombian drug lord – plus a couple of knife wounds and a variety of broken bones acquired over the years. At least he didn’t seem to have any long-term effects from the handful of concussions he’d suffered.

 

While waiting for the shower to warm up, Gibbs removed his boxers and undershirt and tossed them in the hamper. Up until yesterday, he’d been wearing a sling – per Ducky’s orders – and the damn thing had seriously curtailed his normal activities, both at work and at home. It had been a stupid move, really, jumping a fence while in pursuit.

 

Normally, Gibbs would drive his vehicle to head off any suspect on the run. This time though, he’d acted foolishly, dashing after the guy – a two-bit hood who’d been buying guns stolen by a Marine – on foot. They’d run across rough ground, then clambered over a tall wooden fence. He hadn’t known how much of a drop there was on the other side, and that’s how he had gotten messed up. As Paul Newman had pointed out in that cowboy movie DiNozzo liked, “It’s the fall that’s gonna kill ya.”

 

He’d opened his eyes to find DiNozzo hovering over him, his big head blocking out the sun, concerned he’d broken his back or something. The concern didn’t last long. As soon as Gibbs had said he was fine, his SIC got seriously pissed off and railed at him for “pulling a stupid-ass stunt like that.” Gibbs had lain there in the dirt, clutching at his shoulder while trying not to embarrass himself by losing his breakfast, the pain was that bad.

 

Gibbs was back at work the next day, and on the next, he was out in the field again. He had to wear the damned sling though. Tony was still watching him like a hawk, or a mother hen, more like it. Ducky had given his consent for Gibbs to accompany his team out on cases, but _only_ in a supervisory capacity. The ME stood firm, despite Gibbs grousing about how a pulled muscle wasn’t enough to slow him down.

 

It had been hard, not being physically involved in their next investigation. On the other hand, standing on the sidelines and barking orders at McGee and DiNozzo like they were probies had been sort of fun. Watching them run around doing all the work reminded Gibbs of his early days at NIS, when he’d been Mike Franks’ junior agent.

 

It was just the three of them now, him and McGee and DiNozzo. Ziva was gone. She was in Israel and wasn’t coming back, as far as Gibbs knew. After all she’d done, he’d been glad to be rid of her. He could tell Tony was torn, but then he always expected the best of people, and he’d proven to be far too forgiving.

 

McGee and DiNozzo were more than capable of working a crime scene, but an extra set of hands would have helped. DiNozzo had only been re-certified for the field himself a week earlier, having been out of commission with a fractured arm and bruised ribs after taking down Rivkin. It hadn’t helped that Ziva had slammed DiNozzo to the pavement in Israel, and that her father had done his damnedest to inflict pain on him by digging his fingers into Tony’s shoulder during a tense interrogation.

 

Gibbs didn’t know when he’d been so angry; at Eli David, at Ziva, and at Vance, who’d watched it all go down with a smug, knowing expression, expecting DiNozzo to fall apart. He hadn’t though, not his Tony. Gibbs’ second-in-command had taken one for the team, and he’d pretty much told Eli where to stick it, getting the director of Mossad to admit he’d been controlling Aswari the whole time. Damn, that had made Gibbs so proud.

 

DiNozzo had healed quickly, and seemed to be back to his usual self in no time, but Gibbs had caught him wincing and rubbing his upper arm when he thought nobody was looking.

 

Neither McGee nor DiNozzo mentioned Ziva, at least not within his earshot. Her behavior had been off the rails, criminal even, colored by jealousy and a thirst for revenge. And Ziva’s ultimatum – the way she’d tried to force him to choose between her and DiNozzo? Well, there never was any choice, was there? Ziva should have known better. She had been quick to lay blame on Tony, and had turned on him, pulling a gun on him when he was down. Gibbs could never forgive her for that. If she was smart, she’d never set foot on American soil again.

 

Due to his own injury, Gibbs had had to be cautious for the past week. Sanding his boat was out of the question, as was any task that required two hands, but he found some small jobs around the house to keep him busy. Once Tony had forgiven him for getting hurt, he’d pampered Gibbs a bit, helping him wash his hair in the shower, and baking him a delicious mocha zuccotto with hazelnuts, apricot jam and bourbon.

 

As soon as Abby had found out Gibbs had been injured, she had come over and fluttered around, worried. She’d brought over enough groceries to feed an army for a week, fruit and greens, homemade soup and a sweet potato casserole.

 

“Thanks. It’s a hell of a lot better than take-out,” Gibbs had told her, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

 

DiNozzo had helped put a dent in the food stuffed in the fridge, and Fornell and Ducky had eaten their fair share when they’d come over a couple of nights ago to play poker.

 

Fornell didn’t know about Jethro’s relationship with Tony – hell, nobody did – but Gibbs had caught his friend looking from him to Tony and back again. Probably because Tony had taken over, heating Abby’s casserole and serving it, pouring them all drinks and basically acting like a good host. With Jethro’s arm in a sling, it made sense that Tony was helping out, but the way he moved around the kitchen, as if he was overly familiar with it, had been enough to alert the curious FBI agent. If Fornell suspected something, he didn’t speak up; didn’t even make a wisecrack. That, in itself, was enough to make Gibbs concerned that he’d picked up on how close he and Tony were.

 

Gibbs sighed. All it would take was for one person knew the truth, and one by one, the others would find out. It was inevitable, but he really didn’t want to lose their privacy and have to deal with speculation, gossip, and who knows what else.

 

Although he would have enjoyed basking in the hot shower for a while longer, Gibbs wanted to be at work early, just to prove he was back to his normal self. He’d had enough of being poked, and quizzed about whether or not this or that hurt, but Ducky wanted to give him one final check-up that morning.

 

Stepping out of the shower, he dried off, and padded into the bedroom, and opened his closet. Getting dressed with only one working arm had been a real pain, but he had managed by taking it slowly, and sometimes had allowed Tony to assist him. Even now, his movements were a little cautious; his time on the sidelines had given him time to heal, and he did not want to mess up his shoulder again.

 

As Gibbs pulled out his work clothes and laid them on the bed, his alarm clock went off. It was on the nightstand on the far side of the bed, but instead of going around, he prodded at the sleeping figure huddled under the covers. “Hey, shut that off, sleepyhead,” he ordered. “Get up. Gotta go in to work.”

 

A hand emerged and slapped the alarm clock until the annoying buzzing stopped. The body under the blanket shifted and mumbled, “’m up.”

 

“Yeah, I can see that,” Gibbs replied with a laugh.

 

A second later, a sleepy face emerged. “Mornin’, Jethro.”

 

Jethro couldn’t help but smile. “Let’s hope so, Tony.”

 

Heavy-lidded green eyes raked over Jethro’s bare torso and opened wider when they settled upon his dick, which was currently at half-mast and getting harder by the minute. Jethro couldn't help reacting when Tony licked his lips and looked at him as if he was starving.

 

Tony raised his eyebrows. “Um… You need help with that?”

 

“I think I can dress myself,” Jethro said, sounding a little testy.

 

Tony grinned. “Oh, I wasn’t talking about helping you with your clothes.” He nodded at Jethro’s dick and clarified, “I meant I’d be happy to help you with _that_ , sweetheart.”

 

Jethro’s cheeks heated up at the way his lover was leering at him, but it wasn’t like he was about to say no to whatever Tony was offering. He shrugged, trying to play it cool. “I guess could use a hand.”

 

Tony sat up and wiggled his eyebrows, “Or… a maybe you could use a mouth?”

 

“Is your mind _always_ on sex?” Jethro smirked. Tony lived up to his college nickname of Sex Machine, but Jethro had to admit that the feeling of desire was mutual. Ever since they’d first fallen into bed together, having sex – when to get it, where to do it – had pretty much been at the forefront of Jethro’s mind.

 

Tony put on an innocent expression. “Why? Is there something else I should be thinking about?”

 

“Getting ready for work comes to mind,” Jethro said sternly.

 

Not one to be put off by Jethro’s posturing, Tony slid out of bed and smiled as he came around to Jethro’s side. Tony certainly had no compunction about walking around naked, and Jethro had to admit the younger man looked fine without a stitch on, with his long, muscular legs and beautiful lean torso. Tony pulled him into his arms and gave him a soft, languorous kiss. Jethro angled his head and returned the kiss, mapping the inside of Tony’s mouth thoroughly with his tongue.

 

When they eventually concluded the long kiss, both of them were breathing hard. Tony gave a naughty smile and said in a husky voice, “I think work is just gonna have to wait.”

 

“I want to get in early. Have to get cleared by Ducky,” Jethro said reluctantly, picking up his boxers.

 

Tony snatched the underwear out of Jethro’s hand and tossed it aside. He ran a finger along the underside of Jethro’s dick before squeezing the head, smiling when he groaned. “You can’t walk into a meet-and-greet with Ducky with that hard-on, Jethro, and now I’ve got one, too. Let me take care of it for you.” He wrapped his fingers around Jethro’s dick and pumped it, slowly, with exactly the amount of pressure he liked, and asked, with an enticing smile, “So, what do you want, hands or mouth?”

 

Jethro knew it was greedy, but he asked, “Both?” The bright smile that Tony gave him reminded him, once again, how lucky he was to have this handsome, generous, and damned sexy man in his life. The thing was, they hadn’t planned this, sleeping together. Falling in love. For the eight years he’d known Tony, worked side by side with the man, Jethro had never even considered it a possibility. To find out that the smart and imaginative man he’d hired all those years ago carried those same qualities into the bedroom was one hell of a bonus.

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 


	3. Bargaining

CHAPTER 3 - BARGAINING

 

Jethro had a handful of Tony’s ass, and Tony’s hand was squeezing down on his cock; Jethro was thrusting into his hand, lost in the taste of Tony’s kiss, his agile tongue and sexy little moans, and the just-out-of-bed warm smell of him. It was so fucking perfect – until Tony pulled his head back, gasping for air. “Wait!”

 

“What?”

 

Tony placed a hand on Jethro’s chest, and took a moment before saying, “You ever think maybe we’re making up for lost time? For all those years we never did anything about this? I mean, we’ve been having a whole hell of a lot of sex ever since we… you know… figured out we wanted to be together.”

 

Jethro couldn’t believe this. “Are you complaining you’re getting too much sex?” Trust Tony to find it necessary to stop and take a situation apart, looking for some deeper meaning.

 

“No, no… I’m not – far from it. Only, what if this is a flash in the pan and we wear ourselves out? Or if you get tired of me…”

 

“So what if we’re making up for lost time?” Jethro replied impatiently. “Or we _should_ be, if you would stop worrying that we’re enjoying ourselves so much. And as far as getting tired of you… you must know, I could never, _ever_ get tired of you.”

 

Sometimes the sex was of the shirts-ripped-off, crashing-into-walls variety, their battle for dominance resulting in bruises and love bites that meant wearing high-neck shirts the next day. But they made tender love, too, with kisses and murmured promises that left them cocooned with warm fuzzy feelings. Either way, Jethro knew he’d never get his fill of his beautiful lover. He literally wanted Tony all the time, and sometimes had a hard time hiding his attraction to him when they were at work. Maybe Tony wasn’t quite as enthusiastic as he’d thought. “You don’t want to do this? You seemed pretty gung-ho a few minutes ago. What’s really going on?”

 

Tony sighed and said, “I just…don’t want you to strain your shoulder. You’ll have to wear that sling again. And then it’ll be another couple of weeks before you’re okay to do this and… I don’t want to hurt you.”

 

“I’m not gonna be using my _shoulder_ , DiNozzo.” Jethro could see he still wasn’t convinced. “Look, I’ll let you know if it hurts, okay? And we’ll stop and do something else.” He was touched that Tony wanted to take care of him, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to let this damned inconvenient injury get in the way of a good blowjob, and right now he had a powerful need for Tony’s lips to be wrapped around his dick. He ground out, “You know, if you make me late for my appointment with Ducky, I’m gonna have to blame it on you. I’ll tell him it’s ‘cause you gave me the slowest blowjob ever.”

 

“You wouldn’t,” Tony said, horrified.

 

Jethro chuckled. “No, I wouldn’t. This thing we’ve got going on…”

 

“This _thing_?”

 

“Okay, well, this _relationship_ we have, is just between you and me, right? I want to keep it that way as long as possible. You’re all mine.” He kissed Tony hungrily, and once he had him pliant and groaning, he whispered into his mouth, “So how about you finger-fuck me while you’re sucking me off?”

 

Tony gracefully dropped to his knees on the thick bedroom rug, and took Jethro’s heavy cock in one hand. “Mmmm, nice,” he said appreciatively as he gently licked the leaking head. “I love your cock because it’s all mine, and you let me do what I want with it.”

 

“And what d’you want?” Jethro asked, stroking Tony’s hair.

 

“I want you to fuck my mouth and cum, so I can taste you all day,” Tony said, smiling up at Jethro. “And when we go to bed tonight, I want to sleep with your cock in my mouth. I want to keep it warm for you.”

 

Holy crap, the things he said. Jethro took a handful of Tony’s hair and said, his voice rough, “You’re so fucking hot.”

 

Tony pumped Jethro’s cock and played with his balls, licking his lips in anticipation. As soon as Jethro delivered an impatient pat to the back of Tony’s head, he got the message. Wrapping his lips around Jethro’s cock, Tony went to town, sucking on it and making obscene needy noises, as if it was the best thing in the world. When his tongue started fluttering around the cock-head and delving into the piss-slit, Jethro inhaled sharply. He ran his fingers through Tony’s messy hair and tugged on it until he heard his partner moan with pleasure. “Fuck me… your fingers…” Jethro said, panting with need.

 

Tony pulled off, took a couple of breaths, and grabbed the lube from the nightstand. Then he was back, taking Jethro’s cock in his mouth, hot and wet, swallowing him down. Jethro tried to control his thrusts, even though he knew Tony could take it, but it wasn’t easy. Without breaking rhythm, Tony inserted a lubed-up finger deep inside Jethro, and played with him until he stiffened and came with a deep moan of pleasure.

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

“My car’s not going to be ready until this afternoon,” Tony said, removing his phone from the charger on the kitchen counter. “You’d think they’d have Camaro parts on hand. I’ll be riding in with you today.”

 

“You will, will you?” Jethro replied, peering over the top of his newspaper. He loved looking at a freshly showered and suited-up-for-work Tony, even if he had on one of those over-priced designer suits this morning. It had a slight sheen to it that made Jethro want to touch him all over. Shit, how it was that nobody had ever caught and kept Tony, was a mystery. Except, _he_ had, and now Tony belonged to him, and he sure as hell was never going to let him go. “Take the bus or the metro,” he said unsympathetically.

 

Tony blinked a couple of times before saying, “I’ll be late. My boss’ll be annoyed.”

 

Jethro raised one eyebrow. “You know the rule: No riding together, to or from work, under any circumstance. I’ll drop you off at King Street.”

 

“But this is an emergency,” Tony said, almost whining. “It’s an extenuating circumstance. You can give me a ride just this once.” Jethro didn’t budge, so after a moment, Tony tried a different tactic. “How about this? You drop me off around the corner from the Navy Yard, where nobody’ll see me sneaking out of your car, and I’ll buy you a nice, hot, rich coffee on my way past the coffee cart,” he wheedled.

 

“You bargaining with me?”

 

“Well, yeah,” Tony said without any remorse. “Is it working?”

 

Jethro made a big deal out of thinking over Tony’s proposition, and then said, “Throw in a corkscrew, and I’ll consider it.”

 

Laughing, Tony asked, “A _what_?”

 

Jethro raised two fingers, crossed them, and made an obscene drilling motion. The way Tony’s eyes widened as his meaning sunk in would stay with him all day.

 

“You want me to… to screw you?”

 

“Corkscrew me, tonight,” Jethro corrected. “In the kitchen. While you’re naked.”

 

Tony’s face lit up. “Ooooh, I love being naked with you in the kitchen!”

 

Jethro slowly shook his head and smiled wolfishly. “I didn’t say _I_ was going to be naked. You want my pants off, you’ll have to work at it. And I’m not just gonna bend over for you; you’ll have to _make_ me.”

 

“Make you? Okay, I can do that,” Tony replied, his pupils darkening as he pictured the scenario.

 

Jethro warned, “I’m not gonna make it easy for you. Think you can handle the challenge?”

 

Tony swallowed, and managed to say, “Um…”

 

Jethro asked, “Is that a yes?”

 

With a breathy laugh, Tony said, “Hell, yes!”

 

Jethro slowly folded his newspaper and rose to his feet. “I’m leaving in five. If you’re not in the car...” Tony raced off to find some shoes, while Jethro poured himself a cup of coffee to go. It was impossible to prevent a big smile from forming. One thing about Tony, he was certainly entertaining, not to mention eager.

 

When Jethro had injured his shoulder, and got stuck wearing a sling, he’d had to curtail some of his more vigorous activities. Still, getting finger-fucked by Tony’s long fingers was a damned pleasurable alternative. Tonight, he intended to turn the tables on the conveniently naked Tony, and fuck him against the sink. His shoulder might still ache, but there was nothing wrong with his dick, and he intended to prove it.

 

In the few months they’d been together, they’d tried a lot of positions, and had engaged in sex in quite a few locations. Trying new things was always on the menu. Tony hadn’t been nearly as experienced as Jethro had imagined he was – not with men, anyway. Jethro was more than happy to teach the younger man, and they had both enjoyed the learning experience. Every day, Jethro thanked whatever God existed for giving him the courage to finally let Tony know exactly how he felt about him, and to find that Tony reciprocated those feelings was beyond incredible. It still amazed Jethro that, along the way, they’d discovered a depth to their feelings that neither of them had anticipated.

 

As he drove to work that morning, with Tony in the passenger seat beside him, Jethro couldn't help smiling. Tony glanced at him and asked suspiciously, “What?”

 

What could Jethro do but reach over to hold Tony’s hand, and say, “Just… I love you.” He hadn’t intended to say the words; they had just come out – but that didn’t mean he wasn’t speaking the truth. He really did love Tony, more than he wanted to admit, but he’d never said so aloud before. Now he’d make sure he told him at every opportunity just how he felt, but if he couldn't manage to get the actual words past his lips, well, he would show Tony, with touches and kisses, and doing little things for him. The funny thing was that Tony seemed more impressed when Jethro ran him a bubble bath than when he took him out for expensive dinner.

 

The surprised expression on Tony’s face when he heard the “I love you” words turned to a smile of delight, and then he ducked his head and looked at Jethro from under his eyelashes. “Wow, hot morning sex, promises of kinky stuff after work, and now declarations of love?” He laughed and said, “This is going to be a fantastic day!”

 

Jethro squeezed Tony’s hand before releasing it. “I mean it.”

 

“I know you do,” Tony replied softly.

 

“Don’t you ever forget it,” Jethro said roughly.

 

“Never.”

 

“I should have said it earlier…”

 

“It’s okay. I always knew you loved me,” Tony said, with a contented smile. “Some people have trouble saying what’s in their hearts. But I knew. I’m glad you told me though. I love you like crazy, but you know that.”

 

“Yeah, I do.” Jethro smiled, feeling unexpectedly happy. More than that, contented. “Move in with me.”

 

“Jethro,” Tony sighed.

 

“It’s been five months, and we’re at my place most of the time. Hell, you’ve taken over my closet with your clothes.” He sent a sideways glance in Tony’s direction. “Do you even have anything left at your condo? Apart from your piano?”

 

Tony shrugged and stared out the window for a few minutes. Jethro knew it wasn’t a good time to press the issue, but he wanted Tony to let go of his condo and commit to him.

 

After taking a deep breath, Tony looked at him. “I’ll move in with you, but I need to hang onto the condo. Not as a place to escape to, I promise,” he added before Jethro could say anything. “The real estate market isn’t great right now, and I want to make some profit. Okay?”

 

“Very okay,” Jethro said, pulling Tony’s hand up to his mouth so he could kiss it. “Guess we’ll have to do something about the living room. We have to pick the right place to put your piano.”           

 

Tony stared at him and said, “Shit, everyone’ll see it and know I’ve moved in with you. Maybe I should leave it in the condo and…”

 

“No way. You need your time with your piano. I wouldn't think of depriving you of something you enjoy so much just because someone might put two and two together.”

 

“You’re sure about this? I mean really, really sure?” Tony asked anxiously.

 

Jethro assured him, “Yup. I told you, I love you, Tony. I want to share my life with you, and I… I need you there, with me.”

 

“I want to share my life with you too,” Tony admitted.

 

“We’ll talk about this more tonight, if you need to,” Jethro said, knowing it was important that Tony didn’t feel he was being boxed into a corner.

 

“Before or after I corkscrew you?” Tony asked with a wicked grin.

 

Jethro shrugged. “Your choice.”

 

Tony was smiling brightly as they turned into the Navy Yard, but it was time for them to put on their work faces. Jethro said sternly, “DiNozzo.”

 

“What?”

 

“You’re smiling. Cut it out.”

 

“Sure thing, honey. I mean, Boss.” Tony assumed a somber expression as they pulled up to the security booth. After their credentials had been verified, Gibbs pulled up further along so Tony could get out of the car.

 

Before Tony shut the door, he said, “One mega-big black coffee coming up, Boss!”

 

“No dawdling,” Gibbs warned.

 

“Is that anything like lollygagging? Or more along the lines of dilly-dallying, because–”

 

“Shut the damned door and get me my coffee!”

 

Tony did as he was told, and, unable to remain straight-faced any longer, broke into a big smile as he headed across the plaza towards the coffee cart.

 

Gibbs watched his lover walk jauntily away, greeting people with a nod or a word as he passed them. He shook his head and put the car in drive, muttering, “He’s going to be the death of me.”

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

“Where’s DiNozzo?” Gibbs checked his watch. He was due down in Autopsy for his check-up in a couple of minutes, and he really needed some coffee beforehand. He’d already gulped down the one he’d brought from home.

 

“Probably talking with Rochelle,” McGee said helpfully.

 

“Who?”

 

McGee explained, “The coffee cart lady. She’s the only one that carries the blends Tony likes.”

 

Just as Gibbs was about to say something sour about Tony’s likes, the elevator bell dinged.

 

Tony hurried over with a tray of coffee and pastries for the three of them. “Sorry it took so long, but I got talking to the lady who runs the Beans ’n’ Cream coffee cart? Rochelle… you know her. She’s real pretty, long blond hair, nice smile? Really good teeth. Here you go, McGee.” He handed the junior agent a coffee and pastry.

 

McGee nodded thanks, barely looking up as he rapidly typed into his computer. “Do you have anything more substantial to go on?” he was asking whoever was on the line.

 

Gibbs took his coffee and groused to Tony in a low voice, “Maybe it wouldn't take you so long if you didn’t stop to chat with every female between the coffee cart and your desk.”

 

Tony laughed. “I made up for it by sprinting all the way back. Hey, did you know the coffee lady’s son is a radar specialist on the _George Washington_?”

 

Realizing that Tony had been pushing his buttons on purpose, Gibbs gave him a warning glare and announced, “I’m going to see Ducky. I expect to find all those requisitions filed by the time I get back.” Tony slid behind his computer and got busy. Gibbs suppressed a smile as he headed for the elevator, coffee in his hand. Before he was even halfway there, McGee called out, “Boss, we’ve got a body in Falls Church.”

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

“The neighbor discovered her,” McGee reported, indicating a distraught woman of about 40 standing on the front lawn next to a police officer. The police had identified the woman as Captain Anna Boucher, US Navy, and had called NCIS immediately.

 

“McGee, get what you can out of the woman while we start on the scene,” Gibbs ordered. No way did he want to deal with a teary witness this early in the morning. He caught Tony smiling and waggling his fingers good-bye at McGee. “Maybe you want to be the one to talk to her, DiNozzo?”

 

Tony looked alarmed at the suggestion. “Oh no, Boss. I don’t do well with weeping women. Or with anyone who’s crying, for that matter.”

 

“Hell, you know anyone who does?” Gibbs asked. Not waiting for a reply, he headed into the house, a small 1950s ranch with an attached garage. He didn’t have to look back to know Tony was on his heels, carrying the evidence-collecting kits and other gear.

 

The deceased was lying face down in the kitchen, the back of her head dark with dried blood, and there were drops of blood leading to the living room. Capt. Boucher was wearing a bathrobe and one fuzzy pink slipper with a high heel. Gibbs and Tony had a quick look around the house and met back in the kitchen. Two Burmese cats had stared at Gibbs when he opened the door to a spare bedroom, and after doing a quick once-over he’d shut them back in.

 

Tony pulled up the dead woman’s personal info on his smartphone. “Capt. Anna Boucher works at the Naval Medical Research Center in Silver Spring, and her current assignment is to oversee work at a lab at Vitex, a company here in DC. They have a contract with the Navy. Looks like they’re conducting studies for improvement of battlefield medicine.”

 

McGee stuck his head in the door and said he thought they should hear what the neighbor had to say. They met the woman, Marianne Bayliss, outside. Marianne told them, while dabbing her eyes with a tissue, that she fed Anna Boucher’s cats and took care of the litter box when she was working late, or was away from home. She had a key, and had let herself in that morning, on the understanding that Anna had already left for work.

 

“I’d bought her some kitty litter. Anna’s such a busy woman and I’m happy to help out,” Marianne said. She’d walked in and found her friend dead in the kitchen. No, she hadn’t moved the body. “I touched her, just shook her shoulder, but I… I knew right away she was dead, so I called the police.”

 

Apparently their witness had seen Capt. Boucher’s boyfriend, Randolph Jerome, leaving the previous night. “Randolph works at Vitex, some kind of salesman. That’s where he met Anna,” Marianne said, her tone making it clear she didn’t like the guy. After some gentle prodding she said, “He’s older than her by at least 15 years, and the jealous type. Anna’s been on a health kick the past few months, and she was doing really well, but the better she looked, the more abusive that asshole got. Not that he hit her or anything, but I could hear him yelling all the way over at my house.”

 

Tony asked, “And they were yelling last night?”

 

Marianne nodded. “Around 11, but it didn’t last long.”

 

“Does Mr. Jerome live here?” asked Gibbs. He’d seen some men’s clothing in the master bedroom closet. Not enough to suggest a full-time resident though.

 

“Oh no, even though he keeps pestering Anna to let him move in. She says she cares…” Marianne’s face fell. “She _cared_ for Randolph, but she told me his jealousy was too much for her.”

 

Before Marianne started crying again, McGee quickly said, “Tell my boss when you saw Mr. Jerome leave.”

 

Marianne nodded and sniffed. “It was around 11:10. I always take my Chihuahua, Barney, out to do his business after I turn off the TV, and he barked when he saw Randolph getting in his car.” She leaned towards Gibbs, who was taking notes, and said in a hushed tone, “I know for a fact that Anna was going to dump him. She had a new boyfriend, one who took care of her. Nice restaurants, weekend trips, that kind of thing.”

 

“Does the new boyfriend have a name?” asked Gibbs.

 

“I don’t know that, but I know she met him at work. Oh, and he’s European. Maybe German? I met him once when he came to pick her up, but only in passing. It was obvious why she’d fallen for him, and it wasn’t just for his money. Good looking, fair-haired. He drives a silver Jaguar and was wearing an expensive looking suit,” Marianne said. She pointed at Tony. “Like what he’s wearing.”

 

Gibbs glanced at Tony’s suit, as did everyone, including Tony. He was wearing an official NCIS windbreaker, but it was open enough for them to see the designer suit jacket underneath. Gibbs shook his head. Tony thought nothing of blowing his paycheck on a suit by that guy Zegna – one that was likely to get ruined during the course of an investigation.

 

The only other useful information Marianne had to impart was that Anna had planned to leave on a romantic weekend with her new boyfriend – the rich maybe-German boyfriend with the silver Jag and expensive suit – after work that day.

 

Marianne agreed to go down to the Navy Yard to make an official statement, and McGee arranged for one of the police officers standing outside to take her to NCIS. When McGee returned to the house, he pulled out his iPad and looked up Randolph Jerome. “Boss, Jerome works at Vitex as a clinical research coordinator. You want a BOLO out on him?”

 

“Yeah,” Gibbs said, “but treat him as a witness and not a suspect for now. Have a look at Capt. Boucher’s phone, see if you can find out who the friend is with the Jag.”

 

“And the nice suit,” Tony said, smirking. Gibbs found it very hard to refrain from slapping his head.

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 


	4. Scene of the Crime

CHAPTER 4 - SCENE OF THE CRIME

 

McGee located the deceased woman’s phone in the bedroom and accessed her call history. “There are a few recent calls from someone named Hugo and he’s texted, too. A lot, actually.” He did some finger-tapping on the device’s screen and reported, “The number matches up with… Hugo Van Daalen. He’s the head of Vitex, the CEO, Boss. And he’s Dutch, not German.”

 

“Sounds like everyone at work was in bed with each other,” Gibbs said. “We’ll interview Van Daalen and anyone else Capt. Boucher worked with.”

 

Tony motioned Gibbs over the fireplace in the living room. “Looks like this is the point of contact,” he said, inspecting the mantel over the brick fireplace. There was blood and hair on the corner of the mantel, and a small amount of blood on the carpet nearby.

 

A single pink satin slipper lay on its side a couple of feet away. “Vintage boudoir look with kitten heels… nice,” Tony said, making a meowing sound. He saw McGee looking at him and shrugged. “If Palmer was here, we’d be getting the history of women’s sexy shoes, so be glad it’s only me.” He took photos while McGee placed markers next to the slipper, and on the droplets of blood that led to the kitchen.

 

McGee looked from the living room to the kitchen. “Why would someone kill her in here and drag her into the kitchen?”

 

Gibbs inspected the plush carpet. “She wasn’t dragged or there’d be marks.”

 

McGee asked, “Someone carried her?”

 

“She could have stumbled, and fell backwards, hitting her head,” Gibbs said. He picked up the slipper with his gloved hand and found the heel was loose.

 

Tony said, “I’ll bet they had a lover’s spat. The boyfriend pushed her, she hit her head, and then she told him to get the hell out. He left, thinking she’s okay. She limps into the kitchen – on one pretty pink slipper – to get some ice and… collapses and dies.” He turned to Gibbs for support. “You know how it when you get a concussion. You’re dazed, stagger around a bit and then…”

 

“Face-plant,” Gibbs said.

 

“Uh…no!”

 

“That’s what _you_ do.”

 

“No, I don’t!”

 

McGee was nodding. “Yeah, you do, Tony. I’ve seen you. You go sort of blank just before hitting the ground like a sack of potatoes.”

 

Tony protested, “I do not! I fold gracefully, like a swan.”

 

With a snort, Gibbs said, “More like a dying swan, making squawking sounds all the way down.”

 

“Dying swans _sing_ ,” Tony countered, affronted.

 

Ducky arrived at that moment, and overheard the end of their discussion. “I am sorry to be the one to break your bubble, Anthony, but swans do not sing as they die, as is commonly believed.”

 

McGee made some squawking sounds until Gibbs delivered a slap to the back of his head. It was hard to keep a straight face when McGee let out a squeak of surprise.

 

Ton grinned. “Oh, is _that_ how they sound, McSwan-dive?”

 

Gibbs turned to Ducky and asked, “Could Captain Boucher have been alive after she hit her head? Long enough to make it into the kitchen under her own steam?”

 

“Do give me time to have a look at the deceased, my dear man,” Ducky said as he entered the kitchen.

 

“Where’s Palmer?” asked Gibbs, peering out the front window at the ME’s truck. There was a gurney standing on the sidewalk, but no sign of Ducky’s assistant.

 

“Mr. Palmer is on vacation,” Ducky replied, sounding as if it were a sin to take any time off work. He asked McGee and Tony to bring in the gurney and his equipment. “I have already loaded it with everything I need.” Once they were out of earshot, Ducky turned to Gibbs. “You missed your appointment with me this morning, Jethro.”

 

“Uh, yeah, got called to this scene, Duck.”

 

“Yes, well then, I shall see you by end of day. Do not miss it or I shall be compelled to speak to the director about the uncertainty of your fitness for duty.”

 

Bristling, Gibbs retorted, “As you can see, I’m fine. Everything’s in working order.” He moved his arms around to demonstrate his point. Tony and McGee came in at that point, so Gibbs turned away from the ME. He wasn’t going to quarrel with him in front of his team.

 

After doing a preliminary inspection of the body, Ducky announced the time of death was around midnight, but held off on whether or not the blow to her head had been the cause of her demise. “And to answer your earlier question, yes, she could have survived for a few minutes, or even an hour before succumbing to her injury. When I have conducted a thorough autopsy, I shall give you a definite cause of death.”

 

When the ME turned Capt. Boucher’s body face-up, Tony took the photos he needed, and then squatted beside the dead woman with a puzzled expression. He gently touched her face in a couple of places with his gloved fingers. “Hmmm.”

 

Ducky said, “Hmmm, indeed. That is decidedly peculiar.”

 

Gibbs watched his agent’s probing and asked, “There a problem?”

 

“Not sure, Boss.” Tony ordered McGee, “Do the fingerprint scanner thingy on her.”

 

“The correct term is a rapid ID handheld biometric terminal,” McGee told him, while scanning one of the deceased woman’s fingertips.

 

“Like I said, the fingerprint scanner thingy,” Tony replied with a straight face.

 

McGee confirmed the identity of the deceased. “Captain Anna Boucher, US Navy, 42 years old, works at the Naval Medical Research Center in Silver Spring.” He looked at Tony. “You don’t think it’s her?”

 

“Well, she doesn’t appear to be 42,” Tony said. “I mean, look at her. She looks really good for a dead body, especially one who has been lying face down for about nine hours. Presuming she died around midnight yesterday.”

 

Ducky said, “I must agree with Anthony. This young woman could easily be mistaken for a 20-year old. Plus, there is very little discoloration from blood pooling.” He inspected Boucher’s face and head carefully, and then opened her robe as discreetly as possible.

 

Gibbs caught a glimpse of an expanse of milk-white skin, devoid of any wrinkles.

 

Before McGee could ask what he was doing, Tony explained in a quiet voice, “He’s checking for plastic surgery scars.”

 

Ducky cast a puzzled look at the body. “No sign of surgery of any kind. And her skin has not been bleached. Indeed, this young woman’s skin is almost flawless.” He mused, “This reminds me of Victorian ladies who ate arsenic-imbued wafers in order to attain a beautiful-yet-deadly translucent white skin. Exposure resulted in some exceedingly unpleasant side-effects: kidney damage, hair loss, some ghastly growths… and, of course, an agonizingly slow death.”

 

“You saying she was taking drugs, or arsenic, Duck?” Gibbs asked.

 

“It is possible, but unlikely, that a scientist of Capt. Boucher’s caliber would eat arsenic. She could have been ingesting something to cause this effect, but I have no knowledge of any drug that would give such a youthful appearance to a human. If there _were_ such a thing – a fountain of youth in a bottle, as it were – the inventor would become the wealthiest person on this planet. Acquiring or retaining youth and beauty has been a goal of an untold quantity of people since the dawn of time.” Ducky sighed. “Unfortunately, for Capt. Boucher, while she may have attained beauty, she was not spared by the spectre of death.”

 

While Tony helped Ducky pack up the body and get it on the gurney, and Gibbs finished up in the kitchen, McGee went to process the bathroom. He’d only been in there a few minutes when he called out, “Boss?”

 

Gibbs joined him and was shown dozens of cosmetic jars stacked on shelves in a linen closet. He picked up a jar and inspected it. Through the clear glass, he could see a creamy substance that resembled cold cream, but there was no label to say what the contents were.

 

Tony, ever curious, came in and looked over his shoulder. “What’s written on the label? On the bottom.”

 

Gibbs turned the jar over. There was an ordinary adhesive label stuck to the bottom, with a sequence of letters and numbers typed upon it.

 

McGee said, “Looks like some kind of lot number. It might track back to Vitex.”

 

“Somehow I don’t think these were giveaways from work,” Tony said, looking at the stockpile in the closet. “Looks like she was prepping for the apocalypse.”

 

Gibbs retreated from the cramped bathroom, saying, “Take them all back to the Yard. Make sure you tell Abby to treat them as hazardous.”

 

“Yes, Boss,” his two agents said at the same time.

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

Tony pushed a handcart laden with four boxes of what he and McGee had already nicknamed ‘the cream o’ death’ down to Abby’s lab. McGee carried two additional boxes of bagged evidence, which he placed on the metal table in the center of the room.

 

“What did you bring me?” Abby asked, poking around in one of the evidence boxes. “The entire contents of this woman’s medicine cabinet?”

 

“Yep, every cream, lotion and potion. Plus some guy stuff that may have belonged to one or two gentleman callers.” Tony filled her in on the case and finished up saying, “And… she had all these unmarked jars of cosmetics. Might have been concocted in a lab at Vitex.”

 

Gibbs strode in with a Caf-Pow! he handed to Abby. He warned sternly, “Abby, you need to treat those as toxic until proven otherwise.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Abby replied, saluting. “You know there’s nothing wrong with mixing things up in your own lab or kitchen. I make my own cold cream with almond oil and beeswax.”

 

McGee said, “Abby, you don’t keep 96 jars stacked up, just for a rainy day.”

 

Tony pointed out the labels and Abby looked at them with interest. “These look like they’re test batches. You think someone took these from Vitex?”

 

“Capt. Boucher might have stolen them, or someone could’ve made this batch especially for her,” McGee said with a slight shrug. “We don’t know yet if she was affected by this skin cream, or even that she used it.”

 

Gibbs said, “Ducky seems sure she died from a blow to the head.”

“How was she affected by the cream?” Abby inquired.

 

“Check out the before and after photos.” Tony pulled out his smartphone and showed Abby photos of Capt. Boucher’s ID photo, and comparative ones he’d taken at the scene.

 

Abby stared at the images and exclaimed, “Wow, are those both the same woman? Is this _House of Wax_ or what?”

 

“Exactly, the 1953 version!” Tony replied.

 

McGee said, “I know that movie. Vincent Price played Professor Jarrod!”

 

“‘Once in his lifetime, every artist feels the hand of God, and creates something that comes alive.’” Tony said, doing his best Vincent Price impression. “Seriously, this woman’s white skin was creepy. We might be talking vampires here,” he said, and McGee nodded in agreement.

 

“I’ll find out what made her look like that, as soon as Ducky sends me samples from the body,” Abby said confidently.

 

Gibbs headed for the exit. “You two, with me. Let Abby do her job.”

 

Abby rubbed her hands together and jumped up and down. “Don’t you just love a mystery?”

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

Tony hung up his phone and reported, “Boss, security at Vitex says that Randolph Jerome isn’t in this morning. He’s scheduled to meet a rep from a medical instrument manufacturer and is due back after lunch. They don’t have any more details.”

 

Gibbs asked, “The BOLO–”

 

“–is active, but no sign of him yet,” McGee finished up.

 

“His car–” Gibbs began.

 

Tony was quick to say, “Maryland tags 7-2405 on a white Dodge Neon – and I’ve just got to say this: it’s a chick car if I’ve ever seen one – but no sightings so far. Our official version on the BOLO is, ‘We are seeking Randolph Jerome for assistance with an ongoing investigation.’”

 

McGee looked up from his screen. “Can’t trace the car; it doesn’t have a locator. His phone is turned off, but I’m keeping an eye out for any activity.”

 

Gibbs was pleased, not so much at the content of his agents’ statements, but because they were right on the ball with their answers. “Anything on Jerome?”

 

McGee gave them a rundown. “Jerome has been at Vitex for the past ten years, working as a clinical research coordinator. He is good at cost analysis and negotiating budgets with sponsors, pharmaceutical companies, and ensuring compliance with their clinical trials. Basically a numbers man. Not good with people. Jerome has a clean record at work and in his personal life, nothing unusual with his spending habits or bank accounts. His wife died from cancer four years ago. General opinion is he’s a loner and a bit of a sad sack, but Capt. Boucher liked him anyway.”

 

Tony picked up, saying, “It’s a total soap opera, Boss. Jerome and Boucher had lunch together on a regular basis, or did so until a few weeks ago, when she started going out for lunch apparently with another man. Nobody knows who she was seeing, or they won’t say because it’s obvious it was their boss. Security saw her telling Jerome to leave her alone, in a nice way, more than once. He was persistent, so they had a word with him.”

 

Gibbs asked, “What d’you have on Capt. Boucher?”

 

McGee and Tony stood on either side of Gibbs and reported their findings about the deceased. Capt. Boucher’s commanding officer at NMRC, Capt. Drake, said she had a stellar background, was considered top in her field, and was committed to her research to improve care for wounded sailors.

 

“Her CO sounded pretty shaken when I told him Boucher had been killed,” McGee said. “He wants to be kept informed of any developments in the investigation. He said Capt. Boucher was winding up the project she’s overseeing at Vitex, and was due to rotate back to the NMRC offices on Monday. He can’t think of any reason why anyone would kill her. No unusual activity with her bank accounts, and spending is normal for her income. As far as Vitex goes, the Navy has worked with them for the past five years, and Capt. Drake thinks highly of them. He was positive in his remarks about their CEO, Hugo Van Daalen, and the company owner, Mars Odell.”

 

“Odell?” Gibbs asked.

 

“He doesn’t deal with the day-to-day operation of Vitex. He oversees all his interests from his office in Zurich. Van Daalen is in charge here in the US.”

 

“Ducky’s preliminary report is in. And Abby just sent us something,” Tony said, accessing the shared files folder. He printed their findings and summarized, “Capt. Boucher has bruising on her upper arms and blunt force trauma to the back of her skull, coinciding with falling – or being pushed – against a pointy wooden object. The blood and hairs we found on the edge of the fireplace mantel are hers, Abby confirmed. Abby also says the slippers she was wearing were poorly made, and the loose heels were an accident waiting to happen – her words. Raymond Jerome’s fingerprints are all over the house, which you’d expect as he’s Boucher’s sort-of-boyfriend. We have yet to match other prints in the house.”

 

“I can get Van Daalen’s prints through the State Department,” McGee said. “Looks like it could have been an accident.”

 

“My vote is it’s the jealous lover in the living room,” Tony said. His desk phone rang and after brief discussion, he announced, “Ducky says he has something interesting ‘to impart.’”

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

“Ah, Jethro, you missed your appointment,” Ducky said when Gibbs strode into Autopsy, with his two agents on his heels.

 

“I’m here to find out what’s so interesting about my case,” Gibbs countered.

 

“Jethro…”

 

“Not now,” Gibbs countered.

 

Ducky frowned at being put off, but he turned to the female body laid out on the metal autopsy table. “As I surmised, Capt. Boucher died from blunt force trauma. Her cranium was cracked, and the bleeding in her brain appears to have been slow enough to give her several more minutes of life.”

 

“So she could have made it into the kitchen under her own power,” Tony concluded. Ducky agreed it was likely so Tony asked, “The question now is, did Jerome or someone else shove her hard against the mantel, or did she trip after he left?”

 

Gibbs reminded them, “The heel on her slipper was broken. Like Abby said, it could have been an accident.”

 

Tony looked doubtful. “I don’t know, Boss. Feels like foul play to me.”

 

Ducky raised a finger to get their attention. “What I called you down here for is a discovery about the skin cream Capt. Boucher used, with some regularity, over her entire body.” The ME indicated the dead woman’s body. Any skin not covered by a sheet was deathly pale. “It is quite remarkable, her youthful appearance. Unfortunately it is only skin deep. The dermis, as you see, is pallid, making me suspect she had anemia. Not so. The skin itself is almost devoid of pigment.”

 

 

“This was caused by the skin cream and not some other condition?” Gibbs asked.

 

Ducky nodded. “That is my conclusion. The test results from Abby reveal that the cream contained a powerful derivative of an anti-aging formula called NAD. The formula has been altered to such an extent it appears to be able to reverse decay, although in its present form, I believe extended use would be fatal. The poor woman’s organs were showing signs of severe stress and she had advanced osteoporosis. I doubt she would have lived to see Christmas, if that long.”

 

McGee asked, “What’s NAD?”

 

The Autopsy doors whooshed open and Abby entered, saying cheerfully, “Nicotinamide adenine dinucleotide. Not exactly the kind of thing you’d cook up in your kitchen sink.”

 

“Is it possible she didn’t know about the cream’s effect on her? Or d’you think she was a guinea pig in some experiment?” asked Gibbs.

 

Ducky shook his head. “I doubt Captain Boucher was taking part in any regulated clinical trials. That would have been unethical, to say the least. And besides, that batch of skin cream she was using never would have made it far enough to be tested on humans. The cell and organ breakdown would be apparent to any scientist, early in their testing stage, and they would have disposed of it.”

 

“Maybe whoever gave it to her didn’t know it was a bad batch,” Tony suggested. “I mean, there’s no way she’d have slathered poison all over herself if she’d known it would kill her, would she?”

 

Ducky explained, “I cannot say what was going on in this woman’s mind, Anthony. But there is a possibility Capt. Boucher did not know the skin cream was toxic.”

 

Abby said, “Let’s just say someone didn’t know this was a killer cream, and wanted to take some home for personal use, it would be very hard to smuggle all those jars out of a secure lab.”

 

Gibbs spoke up. “Unless you were the boss and had access to the entire place.”

 

McGee was frowning at Capt. Boucher’s body, as if he didn’t want to believe she would knowingly use the de-aging skin cream if she was aware it could be harmful. “It’s possible Van Daalen, or Jerome, or even some other friend, didn’t know what he was giving her.”

 

“What if Capt. Boucher got her hands on their secret formula, and planned to sell it?” Tony suggested. “Even if it wasn’t usable in this formulation, the research behind it could lead them to the next stage. Someone might have killed her for it. People have killed for less.”

 

Abby didn’t agree with that theory. “But you guy brought me cases of the stuff.”

 

“They could have taken just one jar. Or maybe there was another case we don’t know about,” McGee said.

 

Gibbs raised a hand. “Enough speculation. Gear up, we’re going to Vitex.” When he paused to allow Abby to walk ahead of him, he heard Ducky calling his name.

 

“And I’ll see you for your appointment, Agent Gibbs, by end of day.”

 

Gibbs grunted and joined his agents in the elevator, ignoring their poorly hidden smirks.

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 


	5. Brutalist

CHAPTER 5 – BRUTALIST

 

Gibbs drove at his usual high rate of speed, despite their destination, Vitex’s US headquarters, being only a few blocks from the Navy Yard.

 

“Is Vitex in that big building with no windows?” McGee asked from the back seat.

 

Tony turned and said, “It’s on 12th Street, on the same block as that Portuguese bakery. You know, the place that makes those incredible pastries, the pastel de nata.”

 

“Oh yeah. The building – it’s creepy, don’t you think, all that concrete and no windows?” McGee asked.

 

Tony replied, “It’s Brutalist style. Lots of examples of it right here in DC: metro stations, the Sunderland Building, the Canadian Embassy, and half the civic buildings that went up in the ‘70s. There’s a classic example of the style in Manhattan, a skyscraper called the Long Lines Building. It has no windows at all. No wonder they call it the Tower of Doom.”

 

McGee leaned forward. “I read about that. It was built to house telephone switching equipment, and it’s one of the most secure buildings in America. They designed it to be self-sufficient with its own gas and water supplies.”

 

Gibbs commented as he drove, “It’s a fortress. Good place to be in a nuclear blast.”

 

Tony asked him, “Wasn’t the Long Lines building an NSA mass surveillance hub?”

 

“Top secret,” Gibbs replied.

 

“Have you seen that documentary about the investigation into it: _Project X_?” asked McGee.

 

Tony said eagerly, “They used the same building in movies and TV shows: _Ghostbusters_ , the _X-Files_. You remember _Winter Kills_ with Anthony Perkins? I _love_ that line from that movie…” He put on a deep voice and intoned, “‘Your father spent eleven million dollars to raise your brother up from a skirt-chasing college-boy to President of the United States.’”

 

McGee smirked. “Too bad your father didn’t spend eleven million dollars on you, Tony. Maybe you’d have amounted to something.”

 

Tony tensed up, but before he could retort, Gibbs said sharply, “Hey! McGee, leave DiNozzo’s father out of this.”

 

McGee apologized, “Sorry, Boss…”

 

“It’s not me you should be saying sorry to,” was Gibbs’ curt reply as he pulled into the parking lot beside the imposing concrete building. “Enough of the movie talk.” Gibbs didn’t look directly at Tony, but he could tell he was annoyed, possibly at McGee for his comment, but more likely at him for butting in. As soon as they’d started their relationship, Tony had insisted that Gibbs treat him just as he did any other agent. Still, Gibbs reasoned that if Tony had questioned McGee’s relationship with _his_ father, he’d have head-slapped Tony so fast his head would be spinning.

 

“Sorry, Tony. I was joking, honest,” McGee said. “Just a bad attempt at humor.”

 

Tony gave his colleague a tight smile. “No offense taken.”

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

Gibbs held up his credentials. “NCIS Special Agents Gibbs. McGee and DiNozzo. We’re here to see Mr. Van Daalen about Capt. Boucher.”

 

After going through a couple of security checks and traversing long, windowless high-ceilinged hallways, Gibbs and his two agents were finally ushered into the CEO’s office. As expected, it was austere in a Nordic way, yet elegant – and like the rest of the building, it had a very high ceiling and absolutely no windows. As for Hugo Van Daalen, he was just as Capt. Boucher’s neighbor had described: blond and handsome, and decked out in a designer suit that said, ‘I have money and I’m not afraid to spend it.’

 

“I apologize for any inconvenience, gentlemen, but Capt. Boucher has not yet arrived today,” Van Daalen said, with a slight Dutch accent. He came out from behind his desk to greet them, his smile practiced and cool. His pale blue eyes roved over all three of the NCIS agents, assessing them, and obviously wondering what they wanted Boucher for. “How can I help you?”

 

Gibbs got right to the point. “Capt. Boucher died last night. We’re here as part of our investigation.” Van Daalen grew pale and took a step back. He opened his mouth but no words came out. It didn’t take a trained investigator to see he had no idea what had befallen the Navy captain who had been working with his scientists. But, as Van Daalen was allegedly also Boucher’s lover, Gibbs treated him as a suspect. “When did you see Capt. Boucher last?”

 

Van Daalen went to a small bar and poured himself a drink of water before answering. His voice was not quite steady as he said, “I had a brief meeting with Anna… Capt. Boucher… before I left work yesterday, at five.”

 

“You were involved with her, outside work,” Gibbs said.

 

“We’re going away this weekend, tonight, and… What happened to her? Are you sure it’s her?”

 

Gibbs’ method was to ask questions without answering any. “Where were you last night?”

 

Van Daalen paused for a moment, staring at Gibbs. “Are you saying… it wasn’t an accident? How did she die?”

 

Tony joined in with the questioning. “Were you aware of Capt. Boucher’s friendship with another man who works here, a Randolph Jerome?”

 

Van Daalen looked from Tony to Gibbs. He squared his shoulders and said, “Capt. Boucher is a brilliant… She _was_ a brilliant scientist, but she was also a fine woman. We had long-term plans together, once her job here was complete. Anna had no interest in that man Jerome, if that’s what you’re inferring. She said he had been bothering her, but she had taken care of it. He was nothing to her.”

 

Either Van Daalen didn’t know Jerome had been having an affair with Capt. Boucher, or he didn’t want to face it. Gibbs repeated his question. “Where were you last night?”

 

Van Daalen gave a rundown of his movements. “I was in New York for a business dinner. I left yesterday at 5 PM and flew back to DC around…” He had to think for a moment. “I met some associates afterwards for drinks, so I got back here around 1 AM, on our company jet. My assistant will give you the details but I assure you I am telling you the truth.”

 

“We need to see where Capt. Boucher worked, and talk to her associates,” Gibbs said, after Van Daalen had used the intercom on his desk to tell his assistant to get the agents his itinerary.

 

Van Daalen said, “You may talk to the team working on the Navy project, of course. My chief of security will take you to their research unit. All of the projects going on here are compartmentalized. Nobody knows what anyone else is working on, due to clearance and security issues.” He used the phone to get his head of security to join them.

 

“We also want your personnel file on Randolph Jerome, and if he turns up here, we’ll need to be notified immediately,” McGee said, speaking for the first time.

 

Van Daalen’s mouth tightened at that, his dislike of Jerome apparent. “Of course.”

 

DiNozzo was peering at some black-and-white photographs on the wall. He pointed to one, of a man and woman dressed up for a black-tie affair. “This man here, who is he?”

 

Van Daalen hesitated before replying. “That is Mars Odell. He is the founder and owner of Vitex, as well as several other corporations in Europe.”

 

“And the young woman with him?” DiNozzo asked, his smile bland.

 

“Mrs. Odell,” was the terse reply.

 

“Huh, I thought she was his daughter,” DiNozzo said, so mildly that Gibbs knew he was onto something.

 

“One more thing…” Gibbs motioned to McGee, and he pulled one of the jars of skin cream, safely sealed in a bag, out of his pocket and handed it over. Gibbs held it up in front of Van Daalen’s face so he could see the label. “Is this one of yours?”

 

Van Daalen stared at the jar and nodded. He seemed stunned. “I’d have to check but, yes, it appears to be from a preliminary batch. I don’t understand. That entire lot was destroyed months ago. Where did you get this?”

 

He reached for the jar, but Gibbs handed it back to McGee. “You want to tell me how this ended up in Capt. Boucher’s possession?”

 

Van Daalen shook his head in disbelief. “No idea.”

 

McGee asked, “Are you aware Capt. Boucher was using this skin cream on a regular basis?”

 

“No, that is impossible. It is clearly marked that it is supposed to be destroyed… the X at the end of the sequence of numbers. Everyone who works here knows what that means. Oh my God, is that why Anna…?” If Van Daalen had gone pale when he learned about Capt. Boucher’s death, he went an even ghostlier shade of white when he grasped that his girlfriend had been using the deadly skin cream.

 

Gibbs demanded, “You think if the CMS knew you’ve been leaving this toxic crap around so anyone could pick it up, they’d let you keep your license? No license, no government contracts.”

 

It took a moment for Van Daalen to regain his composure. “We regulate our disposal methods carefully. I was not aware that there was a breach of security, but I assure you I intend to get to the bottom of this.”

 

McGee asked, “Did either Capt. Boucher or Randolph Jerome have access to items, like this skin cream, that were slated to be disposed of?”

 

Van Daalen gave McGee a cold look. “Capt. Boucher would never remove any substance from this facility. Jerome though, well, we shall have to ask him.”

 

At that moment there was a knock and a dark-haired man of about thirty walked in. He was wearing a suit and tie, but his shoes had a good tread on them, like a cop’s, and he carried an automatic holstered on his belt. Gibbs assessed him as former military right off the bat, and was wary of him.

 

“This is my chief of security, Marcos Santana. If you will give me a moment to bring him up to speed…” said Van Daalen, motioning for the NCIS agents to leave his office.

 

They stepped into the hall, but Gibbs left the office door open. He kept his eyes glued on Van Daalen and Santana, who were engaged in a private conversation in such low tones he couldn't hear them from where he stood.

 

When they’d finished talking, Van Daalen joined the NCIS agents in the hall. “Santana will take you to Unit C, where Capt. Boucher oversaw the Navy project. If you need anything else, I will, of course, make myself available. I would like to have your assurance that the news of her death will be kept as quiet as possible.”

 

Gibbs nodded but didn’t agree outright.

 

“I also want that jar.” Van Daalen held out his hand.

 

“It’s evidence,” Gibbs said, his tone making it clear he wasn’t going to budge. He also had no intention of telling the man NCIS was in possession of several cases of the skin cream. The guy would probably have a heart attack if he knew.

 

For a moment, Van Daalen’s composure slipped, and he snarled, “That is Vitex’s property, Agent Gibbs, and if anyone gets their hands on it, there will be serious consequences. The work we do here requires the highest level of clearance and–”

 

“Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you let one of your people walk out with it for their own personal use,” Gibbs replied. He gave the CEO a dismissive nod and walked towards the nearest elevator.

 

Santana took the NCIS agents down to a sub-basement level. He was tight-lipped as he led the NCIS agents down a long hallway to a heavy metal door with “C5” on it.

 

Santana said, with a slight smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “There are four people on this research team. You may go into the reception area and they will come out and meet you. You are not allowed in the lab itself, due to high security, and possible health hazards. I’m sure you understand.”

 

“Yeah, got it, Chief,” Gibbs said.

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

They questioned the four people in the lab, Dr. Acer and his three assistants. All were upset over Capt. Boucher’s death, but none had any useful information to impart. They all agreed she was a smart and pleasant woman who was very serious about her work, but she had kept her private life to herself. They knew little about her outside the lab.

 

McGee showed them the jar of cream they’d taken from Capt. Boucher’s home, but none of them recognized it. “We are working on cell and tissue regeneration for major wounds,” Dr. Acer said. “We don’t produce anything like that.”

 

When asked if they had noticed anything unusual about Boucher’s appearance recently, they said she might have looked younger. Her looks didn’t seem to be of any importance to them.

 

The youngest lab tech, a woman, shrugged. “We wear masks most of the time, and I tend to keep my head down, you know, working, but now you mention it, I did have a suspicion she was using Botox.”

 

Tony rolled his eyes as soon as they left the lab, but didn’t say anything as Santana was waiting in the hall. The agents were escorted directly to the lobby, where McGee was handed a copy of Raymond Jerome’s personnel file and Van Daalen’s detailed itinerary from the previous day.

 

Once they were in the car, McGee said, “That photo, Tony…”

 

“You mean the one of the impossibly young Mrs. Odell?” Tony asked, smirking.

 

“She didn’t look… right, like she was wearing a mask,” McGee observed.

 

“No, she did not, McObservant. I think she used the cream o’ death, too. Makes you wonder who gave it to her.” Tony turned in his seat and asked Gibbs, “So, what did he say?”

 

McGee asked, “What did who say?”

 

Tony looked expectantly at Gibbs. “The boss was watching Van Daalen and his lap dog having a top secret chat. You _were_ reading their lips, right?”

 

Gibbs’ lip-reading skills might be somewhat rusty, but he had seen enough to know what Van Daalen had told Santana before they’d left his office. “Oh yeah, I got it. Loud and clear.”

 

“So?” Tony asked.

 

Gibbs smirked and revealed, “Van Daalen said, and I quote, ‘Find Jerome and take care of him – permanently. And get rid that damned photo, too!’”

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

They were driving out of the parking lot when Tony grabbed Gibbs’ arm. “Boss! Stop!”

 

Gibbs hit the brakes and glared at Tony. “What the…?”

 

“Look, there! Isn’t that a white Dodge Neon? Shit, there’s Jerome,” he said, pointing towards a man in his fifties, slim, with a beard and glasses, entering Vitex through the employee entrance at the side of the building.

 

Gibbs pulled into a parking space and the three agents quickly moved in to grab their quarry. Jerome saw he was being pursued and hurried inside. The door slammed shut just as Tony got there, but it was locked. “Damn! It has a keypad.” There was an intercom beside the door. Tony repeatedly pressed the buzzer, and banged on the door as well, but it took several minutes before anyone came to see who was demanding entrance. The uniformed security guard refused them entry and waved them around to the front.

 

Gibbs and his team were unable to get past a security team and had to wait in the lobby while Vitex personnel hunted down Randolph Jerome. Just as Gibbs was about to explode in frustration, he caught sight of Santana shoving Jerome into a room at the far end of a corridor, a burly security guard following him.

 

Although the guards that sat the front desk did their best to prevent Gibbs and his team from leaving the lobby, they forced their way past and hurried to where they’d last seen Randolph Jerome. When they arrived, the door was locked, but Gibbs battered it with his fist and yelled, “You’re gonna want to let me in, otherwise you’ll be dealing with a Navy SRT team armed with heavy weapons.”

 

It was a couple of minutes before the door was unlocked and held open. Gibbs, followed by DiNozzo and McGee, their hands on their holstered weapons, entered the windowless room. It wasn’t really big enough to comfortably hold six men at odds with each other, but Gibbs didn’t plan to stay long. “About time,” Gibbs said.

 

“You can’t be in here,” Santana said sharply. He was standing behind Jerome, who was seated on a hard chair in the center of the room. The room’s only other furniture was a desk shoved against a wall. With one hand on his Jerome’s shoulder, Santana couldn't have made it any clearer that he was his prisoner, and that he wasn’t about to relinquish him to anyone.

 

Gibbs ignored Santana and his threatening glare in favor of checking out Jerome. The beginning of a bruise was forming on the man’s cheek, and he seemed quite nervous. Hell, who wouldn't be, with Santana’s fingers digging into their shoulder?

 

Gibbs said, “Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS. What’s going on here?” Jerome’s eyes held relief at what he evidently assumed was his rescue from Santana.

 

The guard, whose ID said his name was Cleaver, gave a curt laugh. “He won’t say what he was doin’ all the way back in Section 8, but we’ll get it out of him.” He would have said more, but a hand gesture from Santana was enough to make him shut up.

 

Jerome demanded they release him, and tried to rise, but Santana snapped, “You aren’t going anywhere. Mr. Van Daalen wants to have a word with you.”

 

“I’m not saying anything to him or anyone else,” Jerome said, before clamping his mouth shut.

 

Gibbs could see they’d get nothing out of the man while he was still at Vitex, so he ordered, “Cuff him, DiNozzo.”

 

“Got it, Boss.” Tony secured handcuffs on Jerome’s wrists in front of him, and took his arm, propelling him towards the door.

 

“Hey, wait! You can’t do that,” Santana protested, blocking the exit.

 

“No, he cannot.” Van Daalen stood in the doorway, taking in the scene. “This is outrageous! You cannot take this man, Agent Gibbs. Jerome is my employee and he has breached our security protocols.”

 

“The hell we can’t,” Gibbs replied. Santana looked like he was ready for a fight, but Gibbs wasn’t fazed. “We have a murdered Naval officer, and this man is a suspect.” He turned to Van Daalen and growled, “You got a problem with that, you take it up with the Secretary of the Navy.”

 

Santana turned to Van Daalen for direction. “Sir?”

 

“You followed my instructions, Mr. Santana?” Van Daalen asked. “We are done with him?”

 

Santana stared at his boss and after a pause, he slowly nodded. “Yeah, I’m done with him.”

 

“Then escort them off the premises,” Van Daalen said dismissively. He turned and left without even looking at Gibbs.

 

Santana wasn’t going to make things easy for the NCIS agents. He stood in the way of the exit, blatantly challenging DiNozzo to make him move if he wanted to take Jerome out of there.

 

“Out of my way,” DiNozzo said, with a tight smile. “You don’t want to delay us any longer. See, my boss is _way_ overdue for his latest cup of coffee, and he tends to get all riled up when he’s deprived of caffeine. And an angry, caffeine-free Gibbs makes me _really_ nervous, and when I get nervous… well, my trigger finger gets itchy.” He pulled his jacket back to reveal his holstered sidearm, sending Santana a clear signal he’d better not mess with him. McGee, at his side, did the same. Santana got the message and backed off, but that didn’t prevent him from sending the NCIS agents dark looks as they left with their murder suspect.

 

McGee sat in the back with the prisoner, and once they were on their way back to NCIS, Jerome turned to him and said plaintively, “I don’t understand. Who are you saying was murdered?”

 

All McGee could tell him was that they were investigating a case, and they needed to ask him some questions.

 

Jerome persisted, though. “You said a Naval officer was killed. Did something happen to Anna? Is she okay? Tell me… please.”

 

Gibbs glanced in the rear-view mirror and met McGee’s eyes, warning him not to reveal anything about Capt. Bouchard’s death.

 

“We’ll be at NCIS soon,” McGee said. Surprisingly, Jerome didn’t ask any more questions.           

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

Tony returned from locking Jerome in a holding cell. “I asked Ducky to check him out.”

 

Gibbs nodded. Santana had had enough time to do some damage to Jerome before they’d managed to break up his party, and they had to ensure Jerome wasn’t badly hurt. Gibbs’ desk phone rang and he picked it up, half expecting it to be Ducky, reminding him to get that damned check-up – but this time it was Vance. He grunted a few times to let the director know he was listening, and after he hung up, he announced, “The FBI is going to be paying us a visit.”

 

For a second Tony looked alarmed. “Do they think I did something? Should I make a run for it?”

 

Gibbs smirked. “Not this time. They’re sending two of their profilers over. They think we might have a case that is tied to theirs.” One of the agents, Special Agent Rossi, he knew well, and even liked. The other agent, a Dr. Reid, he had heard of but not met.

 

“Which case?” McGee asked.

 

“Agent Rossi says they have two scientists missing, and they think there may be a connection to Capt. Boucher. They’ll be here in an hour.” Gibbs checked his watch. There was plenty of time to squeeze a confession out of Jerome. “McGee, you’re with me. Time we had a serious talk with our suspect.”

 

Tony stood behind his desk, looking disappointed. “But Boss, what about me?”

 

“C’mon then. I need you in observation,” Gibbs said, motioning for Tony to accompany them.

 

“Thanks, Boss!” Tony said, brightening up.

 

Ducky waylaid Gibbs outside the interrogation room. “Ah, Jethro, I’m glad I caught you.”

 

“Sorta busy right now, Duck.”

 

“This pertains to Mr. Jerome,” Ducky said. “Apart from bruises on his ribs and face, none of which are serious, there was an odd puncture wound on his neck. Located about here.” Ducky demonstrated by pointing to a spot below his right ear.

 

“From a blade?”

 

“No, more likely it was from an injection. Think along the lines of a pen with a poison tip. You don’t even have to depress a syringe in order for the contents to be delivered into the skin. I did a swab and Abby is about to analyze it. It was quite small, and, in fact, I might have missed it if a bruise hadn’t formed. Mr. Jerome was not even aware he had been injected.”

 

“He was poisoned?”

 

“Whatever he was injected with was not immediately lethal. It could have contained a drug to render the victim incapable of fighting back. A knockout drug,” Ducky suggested.

 

Jerome had been nervous but hadn’t appeared to be under the influence of any drugs. “He doesn’t know who did this to him?” Gibbs asked.

 

“I’m afraid not, and Mr. Jerome was not forthcoming. As soon as Abby has results, we will know what we are dealing with, and will get Mr. Jerome the medical care he needs.”

 

Santana was the first person Gibbs thought of. That little conversation that Vitex’s head of security had with Van Daalen – it was clear he’d done his boss’s bidding. And earlier, Gibbs had read Van Daalen’s lips, and had seen his orders to get rid of Jerome. This did not look good. “Is there any indication he was drugged, apart from the injection site?”

 

“No, but–”

 

“Then I’m going ahead and questioning him, Ducky.”

 

The ME sighed. “Do keep a close eye upon him, will you?”

 

Gibbs agreed. “If he keels over, you’ll be the first person I’ll call, Duck.”

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

 


	6. Working Together

CHAPTER 6 – WORKING TOGETHER

 

When Randolph Jerome learned that his girlfriend had died, he broke down and could not be consoled. It was McGee who poured him some water and handed him a box of tissues, while Gibbs stood to one side. It was obvious that Jerome had been ignorant of Capt. Boucher’s death, but that didn’t mean he was entirely blameless.

 

Gibbs placed a jar of the toxic skin cream on the metal table. “Tell me about this.”

 

Yes, Jerome admitted, he had supplied Anna with the cream. Yes, he knew that taking it was wrong, and illegal – but dangerous? “No. Of course not! What do you take me for?” He was genuinely shocked when Gibbs informed him that the jars of skin cream he’d given to his girlfriend had slowly poisoned her on the inside, while making her beautiful on the outside.

 

Once he recovered from the horror of what he’d done, Jerome said, “It was easy to grab a couple of boxes. They were just sitting on the loading dock awaiting disposal.” Nobody thought anything of him putting them in his car; he often transported trial medications or other products to hospitals and universities in the course of his job.

 

“What made you choose this cream?” McGee asked.

 

“I didn’t choose it. Anna told me what she wanted, where to find the cases. They’re always destroying perfectly good preliminary batches.” Jerome looked from McGee to Gibbs. “That’s what Anna said. She’d seen the early test results, and they seemed very positive. She would have known if the cream was harmful, wouldn’t she?”

 

Gibbs didn’t know the answer to that. It was possible Capt. Boucher was so intent upon the outwardly positive effects of the skin cream that she was willing to overlook the side effects.

 

Jerome appealed to the two agents, saying, “I didn’t want to do it, but she seemed so… obsessed with getting hold of it. And… I loved her. How could I refuse her anything?”

 

Gibbs scoffed, “You say you loved her, but last night you two had one hell of a fight. What was that about?”

 

Jerome nodded guiltily. “It was because… because Anna wouldn’t stop sucking up to Van Daalen. Her project was winding up and she wanted to be part of the next phase of the limb regeneration study. She would have done _anything_ to be on that team.” He shook his head. “That bastard had his eye on her, right from the start, but not to help her with her career. He just wanted her for sex, and I told her so! But she didn’t want to hear it! He was trying to steal Anna away from me, with his money, his cars, his slick ways, and she was being so _blind_. She lost weight, and did these skin treatments to make herself look more attractive to him.” Jerome made a frustrated sound and said, “I was just trying to make her see how wrong she was about him, and… and it may have got out of hand.”

 

“You call shoving her against the fireplace, so hard her skull was cracked, ‘out of hand’?” Gibbs asked angrily.

 

Jerome cried, “I shook her, but that’s all! I swear!”

 

“Her skull was _cracked_ ; she died from it,” Gibbs growled.

 

Jerome stared at Gibbs as if he couldn't fathom what he was saying. “She tripped, fell back. God, the way she looked at me… like it was all my fault. I had to get out of there…”

 

“You left her to die,” Gibbs accused.

 

McGee opened the folder and pulled out the photos of Capt. Boucher’s body. “Why didn’t you call 911? Did you want her to die?”

 

Jerome glanced at the photos and quickly averted his eyes. “No! I’m telling you, Anna was fine when I left.” He looked at McGee and entreated, “You’ve got to believe me! I would never hurt her, but I was losing my mind!”

 

McGee shoved a photo of Capt. Boucher in Jerome’s face – a graphic shot of the back of her head, her hair matted with blood. “Look at this! You shoved her hard enough, against the fireplace mantel, to do this much damage.”

 

Jerome stared at the photo with wide eyes. “I’d never… I just wanted her to see him for what he is…” He rubbed his hands over his face and asked, “Do you have any idea what it’s like to know you’re losing the love of your life to someone like Van Daalen, only because he has more money than you? It isn’t like he made his fortune doing good for anyone. Van Daalen cuts corners, manipulates the findings, bankrolls the research he knows’ll bring in the big bucks. Hell, he shoves aside anything that isn’t profitable enough! But, you know what? Money can’t buy everything, and without it, he’s a nothing! Nothing! He thinks I’m some schmuck salesman, but I’m going to prove him wrong. He never should’ve underestimated me! Never! He’ll find out soon enough, just wait and see!”

 

“What’re you talking about? What have you done?” Gibbs demanded, but Jerome was done talking. He wrapped his arms around himself, shaking his head, and said he wanted a lawyer.

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

DiNozzo joined them in the hallway. “Wow, what a piece of work. He’s as obsessed as Capt. Boucher was. But it does look like he shoved her and ran, and didn’t have a clue how badly she was hurt.”

 

“So we have him on manslaughter?” McGee asked.

 

Gibbs agreed. “Get the charges written up, McGee. Throw in illegal removal of a hazardous substance from Vitex, for starters.” McGee nodded and headed for the elevator.

 

“Something bothering you, Boss?” Tony asked.

 

Gibbs realized he’d been standing in place, staring off into the distance. “‘Wait and see,’ he said.”

 

Tony frowned. “Wait and see _what_?”

 

“Good question, DiNozzo. Good question.”

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

They couldn’t interrogate Randolph Jerome any further without his lawyer present, but his last words suggested he had planned some sort of revenge against Van Daalen, and possibly Vitex. Gibbs gave Director Vance the job of contacting Van Daalen and giving him a heads up.

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

It was well past noon, and Gibbs was about to tell DiNozzo and McGee to grab a quick lunch when he got a call that the two FBI agents has just passed security and were on their way up.

 

Special Agent Dave Rossi was smiling as he greeted Gibbs and his agents, in turn introducing them to the tall young man at his side. “This is Dr. Reid, special agent at the BAU, the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. So, we hear your Navy scientist was killed last night. Thought we’d come and compare notes, if that’s okay with you. We’ve lost a couple of scientists recently ourselves.”

 

Gibbs and Rossi knew each other professionally, and when Reid and Tony greeted each other, it was obvious they’d met before. Tony explained they’d met in Atlantic City. He’d gone there with his frat brothers a few years ago, and had met Reid in a casino.

 

“You should have seen this guy obliterate the blackjack dealer,” Tony said, grinning at Reid. “No wonder they barricade the casino doors when they see you coming. He’s a regular Cincinnati Kid.”

 

Reid brushed off the compliment and explained, “The real trick is not getting thrown out of casinos. Generally I shuffle-track, following the cards when they’re shuffled and figuring the odds of where they are in the deck. My strategy is staying in as long as I can, because the odds tip in your favor over time.” He looked sideways at Tony and said, “Tony is more of an impulsive gambler.”

 

“That’s true. Lady Luck and I have a capricious relationship. However, I have a strict rule to go in with $500, and when it’s gone, I leave,” Tony said. “If I win, it goes to charity. However there was this one time…”

 

Before Tony could launch into a story about his gambling exploits, Gibbs said abruptly, “DiNozzo! You and McGee, show them what we have.” He stood in front of the plasma, with Dr. Reid and Special Agent Rossi on one side, DiNozzo and McGee on the other.

 

After a brief tussle with Tony over the clicker, McGee gained possession of it and launched into a description of their victim. He gave an overview of the crime scene, Capt. Boucher’s personal details, and finished up with, “The Navy’s studies in tissue regeneration, which are in the early stages, were overseen by Capt. Boucher. She divided her time between the NMRC in Silver Spring and Vitex, which is only a few blocks from here...”

 

Tony continued, “And she also divided her favors between two boyfriends: the CEO of Vitex, Hugo Van Daalen, and Vitex’s clinical research coordinator, Randolph Jerome. Jerome is currently cooling his heels downstairs in one of our comfy holding cells.” He gave a synopsis of Jerome’s interrogation, and noted they were waiting on his lawyer. “He clammed up right after saying something that sounded like a threat. It could be nothing, but…”

 

“We’ve notified Vitex, so they can take precautions,” Gibbs said.

 

Rossi nodded and said, “We have two scientists missing since early June. We’ve been checking out labs all over the country, including Vitex, but nothing raised any red flags. You visited them this morning, I understand?”

 

“Yup. Got the ten-cent tour,” Gibbs said sourly.

 

McGee added, “Van Daalen _seemed_ cooperative until his people discovered Jerome in a section of the building he apparently wasn’t supposed to be in. We took custody of Jerome and questioned him. He appeared to be glad to be out of there. There’s definitely some friction between them.” At a nod from Gibbs, McGee disclosed the bare bones of their interview with Jerome, including his threat to Van Daalen.

 

“So, there’s no love lost between Jerome and Van Daalen, but so far you have nothing specific, except his ‘I’ll show him’ taunt,” Rossi summarized. He studied Gibbs’ face for a long moment before making a humming sound and said, “You’re taking his threat seriously.”

 

“Yeah, I am.” Gibbs’ gut was churning and he had a feeling that something bad was about to happen. He couldn't wait to get his hands on Jerome again, even if a lawyer was present, doing their best to block him. “Your missing scientists tie in to our case… how?”

 

McGee offered Rossi the clicker, but the FBI agent gave a wave of his hand, refusing it. “You seem to be a pro with it, Agent McGee.” The images he’d brought over were loaded into the system, and as soon as a series of photos came up – picture IDs, the victims’ cars, phone records – Rossi started narrating. “Two research scientists have been reported missing, Dr. Guittierez and Dr. Reisenberg, on June 7 and June 14 respectively. No sightings, no trail, and no ransom demands have been made. We are going on the assumption they’re still alive. We were just working on our next action when we heard about Capt. Boucher this morning, and wondered if our case and yours might be related.”

 

Reid supplied the background information. “On June 7, Dr. Julius Guittierez, a Cornell University researcher who studies the immune system’s response to wound trauma, disappeared after he left his lab in Ithaca, New York. He never arrived home and his wife, who says she is used to him working long hours and staying at the lab for days, didn’t realize he was missing until a colleague phoned her two days later to ask where he was.”

 

“He’s still missing after six weeks?” Tony said, sharing a look with McGee.

 

“And no sighting of him since that date,” Reid said. “A week later, on June 14, Dr. Joseph Reisenberg, head of the Department of Experimental, Diagnostic and Specialty Medicine at the Fulbright Clinic in Atlanta, went missing. He left work mid-morning to attend a conference in Charlotte, where he was scheduled to be a speaker. His car was found in an empty lot off Interstate 85. There were no personal belongings in it. His luggage and all work-related papers, which his assistant says he had taken with him, were not in the vehicle. We interviewed people but nobody saw anything, and at this time there are no leads. No signs of struggle with either of these incidents. No witnesses either.”

 

“So the only connection with our dead captain is they’re in the same field?” Gibbs asked, thinking it was a stretch to think the crimes were related. “What’s the motive?”

 

“All three of them are experts on cell regeneration,” Rossi pointed out. “It could be that someone has a beef with their research, or their methods, but we have a theory that someone wanted these two particular scientists for their working knowledge.”

 

“They couldn't just hire them?” Gibbs asked, irritated.

 

“Maybe they refused, and couldn’t be swayed by whatever was being offered,” McGee suggested. “It isn’t always about the money.”

 

“Everyone’s always in it for the money, McGreenback,” Tony said, shaking his head. “I mean, there’s got to be a mega-ton of cash up for grabs for whoever figures out how to control regeneration. Imagine if a doctor was able to heal all wounds, even on the battlefield? Or if you could get a human to generate a new kidney, or heal a leaky heart valve, or re-create a missing limb? People would not only live longer, but it’s possible that they wouldn’t age.”

 

McGee shot back, “You want to look twenty again? Remember that Capt. Boucher looked creepy young on the outside, but her organs were rotting on the inside.”

 

“No, I don’t need to look like a college freshman, but it would be nice to have my lungs back at full capacity again,” Tony replied sharply. “And I’m sure Gibbs could be happy if he could run after perps without his knees hurting. Think of all the kids with terminal diseases, all the people who could be helped by this, even if it’s just giving them some small relief from a life of pain. This isn’t just some exercise in vanity, McGee.”

 

McGee said, “You’re right, but according to the papers I’ve read, they’re nowhere near achieving regeneration at that level. Nobody’s going to be throwing away their crutches and claim they’ve been healed anytime soon.”

 

Gibbs growled, “Enough. Nobody’s expecting miracles! And DiNozzo, my knees are just fine.”

 

“Sorry, Boss, didn’t mean to suggest you had trouble with your knees, because we all know you can still run like a gazelle. Or maybe you’re more like a wolf after its prey. You beat me every time we run down a suspect,” Tony replied, with a smile. “Okay, you usually jump in the car and head them off at the pass while I’m chasing on foot, but…”

 

“Hey!” Gibbs narrowed his eyes, warning Tony to put a lid on it. Tony took the reprimand with good humor and a sideways look at him that almost made Gibbs laugh. Damn, trust Tony to be both insightful and humorous at the same time.

 

Reid pitched in, saying, “Just imagine the clinical applications if we could control regeneration. The human body continuously regenerates due to the properties of its resident stem cells. They possess the unique ability to self-renew. The ability to re-grow body parts is common to a lot of animal species. Zebrafish are capable of amazing regenerative processes, and have the ability to regenerate complex organs, like the heart, the central nervous system, and the limbs. If this ability was harnessed–”

 

Rossi butted in and got back to the specifics of the case. “What we do know is that someone took each of these men without leaving any trace behind. Whoever it was is intelligent and highly organized. He or she planned these abductions in advance, and he knew that each of the victims would be at a certain time and place. It looks like they went along without a struggle. He may have delivered threats they took seriously – either fearing for their lives, or for the lives of loved ones.” Rossi looked at Reid, who took over.

 

“We deduce the UnSub is male, in his forties, and has a type ‘A’ personality,” said Reid. “He may be connected to the scientific community, possibly in the same field as Dr. Guittierez or Dr. Reisenberg. There have been no demands so far, and no contact from the UnSub. And there is no evidence of this, but the kidnappings may be the work of more than one person.”

 

Gibbs asked, “Working together?”

 

Rossi replied, “Not as equals. Most likely one of them is the leader.”

 

Tony suggested, “If both scientists are still alive – and it appears they were taken without injury for a reason – like you said before, it’s possible they were chosen because someone wants to put them to work in their own lab. You’ve said they’re both highly specialized.”

 

McGee raised an eyebrow. “Someone is enslaving scientists to work on a super secret project?”

 

Tony shrugged. “I know, it sounds like something DC Comics or the CIA would cook up. The problem is, how could anyone expect these scientists to do their best work in a hostile environment? What’s to say they’re not going to sabotage the experiment, or create a weapon to use against the megalomaniac who’s keeping them chained to their workbench?”

 

“ _Iron Man_ all over again,” Reid said absently. “It’s not uncommon, especially in times of conflict, to capture useful individuals and coerce them into doing your bidding. Even if the captive is held on a tight leash, that doesn’t prevent them from planning an uprising.”

 

“Exactly!” Tony looked around and found everyone’s eyes were on him. “I’m just saying, someone has to have a hold over these two guys, or they won’t do whatever it is they were kidnapped for.”

 

Reid suggested, “Threats to their families could be enough to convince them.”

 

Rossi observed, “Possible. Guittierez has a wife and grown kids, grand-kids, too, but Dr. Reisenberg apparently cared only about his work.”

 

“How does this tie to Captain Boucher? I think we’re trying too hard to match them up,” Gibbs mused.

 

McGee agreed. “Apart from her scientific knowledge, Boucher has no connection with Guittierez or Reisenberg. Does she?” He exchanged a look with Gibbs and quickly amended, “I mean… I’m going to look into that right now and see what the connection might be, Boss.” In two seconds flat, he was hard at work on his computer, trying to connect the three scientists to each other.

 

“We only found out about Capt. Boucher’s death a few hours ago but the FBI is working on finding any connection, and will share it with you, of course,” Rossi told McGee.

 

Tony was staring at the plasma, chewing on his bottom lip. “Could Boucher be the UnSub? We already know she was dedicated to getting results and had an obsessive personality.”

 

“I doubt she did the actual abduction. She was a small woman,” Rossi said, looking at the info they had up on the plasma.

 

Gibbs said, “She could have planned it…”

 

Tony finished up, “… and had someone else do the heavy lifting. You know, it wasn’t exactly on Capt. Boucher’s to-do list to get murdered by her boyfriend last night. She could have grabbed these two scientists and delivered them to Van Daalen. ‘Hey honey, look what I got for you! Those two scientists you need to get ahead of the game.’ Or, they could have planned it together. If Van Daalen asked her to do something for him, for the good of science, she’d have done it, no question. Is there any way of finding out if the missing scientists are being held at Vitex? It’s a big place with all those secret units, and nobody knows what’s going on in the other labs.” He turned to Gibbs. “We need to ask Jerome if he knows anything about Guittierez and Reisenberg.”

 

“We have to wait for his damned lawyer,” Gibbs reminded him.

 

McGee looked up from his screen. “Their firewalls are really strong, and while I work on them, I could try to access their cameras, maybe their non-classified files.”

 

“Call legal and get a warrant first. Vance has already cleared it with them,” Gibbs ordered. He then asked Tony, “What else have you got on Vitex?”

 

Tony clicked through some images and brought up photos of the top personnel of the large corporation, including Hugo Van Daalen. “They have labs and offices in several US locations, and also Europe, two in Scandinavia. They specialize in creating and testing advanced materials for military use, like protective gear. And they do a wide range of medical research and testing. It’s all classified.” He indicated a fair-haired man on-screen. “Mars Odell, the owner, is a billionaire, has residences in Sweden, France and Greece. He has lots of friends in high places, gives a lot to charities, and is on his fifth wife… McGee, do you have a picture of him?”

 

McGee took a minute to locate a photo of Odell and put it up on the plasma. “The woman at his side is his wife, Natalie, age fifty. The accompanying text says they’re at a gala in Paris, seven months ago. Tony, isn’t this the same photo you pointed out, in Van Daalen’s office?” When McGee enlarged the photograph, he and Tony exchanged glances, and said at the same time, “ _House of Wax_!”

 

Tony muttered, “Another one?”

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 


	7. Purple Haze

CHAPTER 7 – PURPLE HAZE

 

In order to explain the _House of Wax_ reference to the FBI agents, McGee found a comparative picture of Natalie Odell from two years ago. In the photo, taken two years ago, she appeared to be an attractive woman, with a few light wrinkles covered in heavy makeup. In the recent photo, she looked like a different woman; now Mrs. Odell could easily be mistaken for half her age, with unnaturally flawless, white skin. It was only when you inspected the image that you recognized that something about the woman’s face wasn’t quite right.

 

“She has the appearance of a doll,” Reid observed, frowning. “Immobile and plastic.”

 

Tony snarked, “I’ll bet her girlfriends were pestering her for the name of her plastic surgeon.”

 

Shaking his head, Rossi said, “To quote Mae West, ‘You’re never too old to be younger.’”

 

Gibbs snorted. “Yeah, well, how about, ‘Be careful what you wish for.’?”

 

McGee, who was still searching for information stared at his screen and said, “Uh oh.”

 

“What, McGee?” asked Gibbs, not liking the sound of this.

 

“Mrs. Odell was confined in a private hospital in late May with an undisclosed illness. It isn’t public knowledge, but she died two days ago at the Abernathy Center in upstate New York.”

 

Rossi raised his eyebrows. “And our scientists went missing in early June.”

 

Reid suggested, “It’s possible they were brought in to work on a treatment for Mrs. Odell, to stop any further progression of the cellular breakdown. But if this woman was using this toxic cream for any length of time, and her appearance suggests she was, the odds are stacked against them being able to reverse any organ damage.”

 

“What I’d like to know,” said Tony, “Is who supplied Mrs. Odell with the toxic skin cream?”

 

McGee informed Gibbs he needed some time to try to access Vitex’s computer system, so Rossi suggested, “If you don’t mind some help, may I introduce you to our technical analyst, Penelope Garcia?” Agent Rossi placed a call, and within minutes, McGee and Garcia were facing each other on their computer screens, happily talking about how to gain access to highly secure private files.

 

While McGee was occupied, Rossi suggested to Gibbs they get some lunch. “My treat,” he said affably.

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

It wasn’t often Gibbs broke protocol with DiNozzo at work and called him Tony, or got personal with him in any way, but the two BAU agents had been called up to Director Vance’s office for a brief chat. Gibbs took the free time to grab some coffee in the break room. DiNozzo joined him, and they decided to sit beside each other in an empty conference room. For a change they didn’t discuss the ongoing case, and although Gibbs was happy enough sipping his coffee in silence, Tony, as always, preferred to talk.

 

“I was wondering… about me moving in,” Tony started. “You sure you’re okay about the piano? It’ll take up half your living room.”

 

Jethro pondered the logistics of moving a piano into his house. “Is the den big enough?” The room, situated behind the stairs, with access from the kitchen, was rarely used. There was an old desk in there as well as a single bed. He’d slept there a couple of times when an injury had prevented him from climbing the stairs. For some reason, Gibbs usually preferred sleeping on his couch – or, at least he used to, before he had Tony to keep him company in the master bedroom at night.

 

Tony seemed interested in that alternative. “What’s the square footage?”

 

“Same width as the living room, just over twelve feet. About thirteen feet deep. You’d want to replace the carpet. It’s got hardwood underneath, if you like that,” Jethro suggested. “There’s still room for the bed; just have to push it to one side.”

 

Tony nodded, looking serious. “Some carpeting is good. Maybe an area rug instead, to mute the sound.”

 

Jethro smiled at Tony and risked taking his hand. “I like to hear you play, so make sure I can hear you from down the basement.” He loved the way Tony dipped his head as if bashful. A moment later they leaned towards each other and shared a gentle kiss. “So,” Jethro said quietly, “You’re ready for this big step?”

 

Tony nodded. “Yeah, I am. I feel good about it. And… we can shut the door if you have anyone over, so they don’t see it and… you know… know I’m living with you.”

 

Jethro frowned at Tony. “We don’t have to go sneaking around, Tony.”

 

“We don’t?”

 

“I’m not suggesting we paint the house rainbow colors or anything, but I love you and I don’t care who knows it, or what they think about it. I don’t want you to feel bad if anyone says something negative, but… at the end of the day, we go home to the same house, the same bed, and we can’t hide it forever.”

 

Tony kissed him again, this time deeply, with lots of tongue, and when he broke away he was breathing hard and laughing at the same time. “God, I love you, Gibbs.”

 

“Jethro,” he corrected.

 

“But, we’re at work, and you’re Gibbs at work.”

 

Gibbs said softly, “Call me whatever you want, so long as you love me back.”

 

“I do. I love you. Hell, I’m _in_ love with you,” Tony declared. He was about to say more when Gibbs’ phone buzzed.

 

“C’mon, Rossi says they’re waiting out front. Let’s get some lunch,” Gibbs said. He drained his coffee cup and headed down and out the building with DiNozzo on his six, and if anyone noted the two men were practically grinning at each other, they were smart enough not to say anything.

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

They decided to take the two BAU agents for sandwiches at a restaurant on the other side of the Navy Yard. The four men easily found a table as the lunch crowd had long since dispersed. They ordered, and while they waited for their food, Rossi got Gibbs to talk about the work he was doing on his boat, and there was some discussion about Rossi’s latest novel, and then an Australian wine he’d recently discovered and recommended. As they ate, Gibbs listened with half an ear as Tony and Reid had a friendly quarrel over their preferred piano playing technique, but mostly he listened to Rossi talking about his team, and what it had been like to come out of retirement to work at the BAU.

 

They were walking back to the NCIS building, with Tony carrying a bag containing the lunch he’d promised to bring McGee, when Tony said, “Shoot, I forgot to get McGee a drink. I’ll just stop at the Beans ’n’ Cream.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of his favorite coffee cart standing in the shade of a tree not far from the main entrance of their building. “That’s a venti for you, right, Gibbs?”

 

The way Tony smiled, Gibbs knew he was teasing him. “Just get me a large, DiNozzo. And don’t spend too long flirting with Rochelle.”

 

“Never, Boss.” Tony took the orders from the FBI agents and sauntered over to his favorite coffee cart.

 

Gibbs walked ahead with Rossi and Reid, and let them proceed into the NCIS lobby. It would take a couple of minutes for them to get through security, so he told them he’d catch up, waiting at the door for Tony. Normally Gibbs wouldn’t have lingered, but there was something in the air that afternoon, a heavy feeling like a storm was brewing. He looked across the plaza, noting the crowds were pretty sparse, which was unusual for a Friday in July. Tony was finishing up his transaction with Rochelle, laughing at something she’d said. Considering it was a nice, sunny day, not too humid, it was surprising there were so few people about. But it was well after lunchtime, so most workers were probably be back in their offices by now. He kept an eye on Tony, coming towards him carrying a tray of coffees. Tony saw him watching and smiled brightly before turning to say hi to a woman as she passed. Gibbs recognized her as Dolores Bromstead, Tony’s friend from HR.

 

All of a sudden, Tony stopped dead in his tracks and the tray of drinks tumbled out of his hand. The coffee cups hit the ground, tops snapping off, dark brown liquid spilling across the pavement. Tony stood stock-still, staring open-mouthed at something in the distance beyond Gibbs’ line of sight.

 

Gibbs knew immediately that whatever Tony was gaping at was bad, really bad. Instinctively, he ran towards Tony, shouting his name, not knowing what was wrong, just that he _had_ to get to him. He had only taken a couple of steps when there was a deafening roar and the ground shook. He almost lost his footing, but somehow kept going. A few more steps and he reached Tony, grabbed him, knowing only that there was some kind of danger – that he had to get him to safety.

 

It was as if they were moving in slow motion. Tony pulled, trying to get back to the coffee cart, to Rochelle, who was huddled close to her cart. Gibbs yelled at him, but Tony ignored him and broke free. Gibbs followed, and that’s when he saw a huge plume of smoke rising from somewhere beyond the Navy Yard. There was another boom and a massive fireball erupted into the sky. A burst of strong wind, stinking of burning chemicals, hit him, and all he could do was stand there, watching in horror as an enormous mushroom cloud grew and grew until it obliterated the sun. The blue sky turned a threatening dark purple, and all over the plaza, people were screaming and scrambling for the shelter of the nearest building.

 

Rochelle was barely able to walk, and Tony was struggling to get her across the plaza. Gibbs made it to Tony’s side just as a dense purple-black ash began to fall. Within a few seconds, day turned into night, and the building they were heading for could not be seen. Gibbs could barely make out Tony’s form. “Tony!” he called out, though he knew he was only an arm’s length away, supporting Rochelle on her other side.

 

“Can’t breathe!” Tony shouted, his words followed by a choking cough.

 

They clung to each other, and to Rochelle, and fought against the acrid wind and dark ash to get safely inside NCIS. People were milling around in the lobby, many coated in the fallout dust, some of them appearing to be in shock.

 

Tony was bent over coughing, but as soon as he was able to get a breath, he pushed Rochelle into Gibbs’ arms. “People… still out there…” He went to the glass doors and held one open. Frightened people poured in, stumbling and falling as they ran inside, many of them choking on the noxious ash.

 

Gibbs moved people away from the glass doors, and instructed everyone to head for the stairwell. “Go down, go down! Keep moving!” The NCIS guards worked with him to steer everyone out of the lobby and down to the lower levels where they would be out of harm’s way. Most of the Navy yard buildings had shelters, and the NCIS headquarters could handle hundreds of people short-term. A man, his face coated in ash, stopped, apparently recognizing Rochelle. He said he’d take care of her and, with a supportive arm about her shoulders, helped her to the stairs.

 

As soon as most of the people had left the lobby, Gibbs sought out Tony. He was still at his post, holding the door open for any stragglers. He was coughing, and ash was blowing in, clinging to his clothing and any exposed skin. Alarmed, Gibbs said sharply, “You’re letting it in, Tony, the fallout!” Gibbs touched Tony’s arm to get his attention. “Hey, close it!” It took a couple of prompts but finally he closed the door. “Come with me,” Gibbs said, but Tony shook him off.

 

“I have to watch,” he insisted.

 

It grew ominously dark outside, the doors rattled as the wind picked up and bits of grit struck the glass. Sirens were going off in the distance, car horns blared and he heard what sounded like vehicles colliding. There was another deep boom and the whole building shook. For a minute, Gibbs was frozen, taken back to 9/11.

 

A loud crash of glass breaking came from somewhere above them. Huge shards of glass crashed to the sidewalk only a few feet from the entrance. That was it. Gibbs shouted, “C’mon, Tony, we need to go down! Now!”

 

Someone ran by, stumbling, a barely visible figure in a storm of dense dust. They disappeared almost as quickly as they had appeared.

 

Tony turned his head and their eyes met briefly. In that second, Gibbs knew what Tony was about to do, and, horrified, he reached for him, crying, “No!” But Tony slipped from his grasp and pushed through the door, and he just… vanished… into the terrible darkness.

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 


	8. Shelter

CHAPTER 8 – SHELTER           

 

Gibbs ran outside, shouting Tony’s name. He had never been so scared in his life, but he _had_ to follow Tony. He had no idea where the hell Tony was, or how he was going to find him. The wind was hot and dense – it stank of something bitter, with gritty particles stinging his exposed skin. He pulled his shirt up to cover his nose and mouth. It was meager protection; the blackness burned his throat and stung his eyes, and it was becoming increasingly hard to breathe. Nobody out there could survive this horrific fallout. “Tony! Tony!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.

 

Suddenly, Tony emerged out of the dark, carrying a woman, and somehow – Gibbs never understood how they managed to do it – they got her back to the NCIS building. Once inside, Tony fell to his knees, choking and hawking up ominously dark crap on the lobby floor. Gibbs took the woman and gently eased her to the floor even though he could see she was gone.

 

Tony could barely get a breath, but between coughs he kept trying to tell Gibbs to take care of her. “Help…,” he croaked.

 

Gibbs brushed the purple-black ashes off the woman’s face. It was Delores Bromstead, her features blackened and barely recognizable. “She’s dead, Tony. We need to go now.” Tony made a small cry of disbelief, but he saw Delores’ face, and a second later was he bent over again, coughing. His head and shoulders were covered in dense ashes; the stuff even coated his face and clung to his lips and eyelashes. Gibbs knew he had to get him down to the decontamination showers immediately.

 

When he took hold of Tony’s arm and pulled him to his feet, Tony clung to him as if all his strength had been sapped from his body. “This way.” Gibbs led Tony through the eerily empty lobby towards the stairs. Everyone had already evacuated down to safety, even the guards.

 

“But… Delores.” Tony looked back at her body. He wiped his nose, and started crying, the tears forming dark purple rivulets down his cheeks.

 

Gibbs urged Tony along. The sooner they were out of there, the better – the sooty fallout covered the floor near the entryway, and particles hung ominously in the air. “C’mon, babe. There isn’t anything we can do for her now.”

 

Rossi emerged from the stairwell and hurried towards them. His eyes widened when he saw the state they were in. “We’ve got to get you downstairs. They’re sealing off all the buildings in the Yard to prevent contamination.”

 

Tony tried to speak but started hacking, and he seemed unable to stop the harsh, wet-sounding coughs. Together Gibbs and Rossi supported him as they made their way down one level, where the decontamination showers were located near the gym. Tony continued coughing, and by the time they got him to the decon area, he was on his knees, puking up what looked like wet black soot. “Go get Ducky,” Gibbs said desperately. “Down one level, Autopsy.”

 

Gibbs seated Tony on a bench in front of the showers, and braced him as he vomited into a trashcan. It wasn’t easy to remain calm, but Gibbs kept telling himself to keep a clear head. Tony was counting on him. As were the others, his family, Abby and McGee, Ducky…

 

Tony wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his breathing fast and labored. Worried, Gibbs coached him, “You’re going to be fine, but you need to slow your breathing down. That’s it, take slow, even breaths. Good boy.”

 

Eventually, Tony’s breathing improved somewhat, although he was leaning heavily against Gibbs, exhausted and still wheezing a bit. He fumbled at a jacket pocket and pulled out an inhaler with a shaky hand. After giving himself a dose of medication, Tony started to breathe more easily. He swallowed and asked, “Wha’ happen’d…? Explosions… ?”

 

“I don’t know, but we’re safe now,” Gibbs replied, hugging Tony, not caring who saw them.

 

“It was close. Real close,” Tony said, his eyes wide. “Did you see it? The cloud?”

 

“Yeah. We’ll be okay down here,” Gibbs assured him, even though he had no idea what damage the massive explosions had caused, or even if they were currently in any kind of danger.

 

“Rochelle okay?” Tony asked, as if he was afraid to hear the answer.

 

Gibbs pointed out the coffee vendor who Tony had gone back to rescue. “She’s right there, being taken care of,” he assured Tony. Rochelle was currently in a decon shower, being assisted by a woman he thought might be from the analytics department.

 

Tony nodded, then suddenly grabbed at Gibbs. “Abby! Where’s Tim? He was upstairs…”

 

Gibbs shook his head. “Abby’s safe in her lab. She’ll follow the safety procedures.” Or, so he hoped.

 

“McGee…”

 

“I don’t know, Tony. He would have gone straight to Abby. C’mon, get up. You need to get out of those clothes. You need to get this crap off you.”

 

Tony raised his eyes to Gibbs’ hair and said shakily, “You’re covered in it.” It was only then that Gibbs realized that he, too, was encrusted in the ominous, clingy soot. His throat felt as though it had been burned, and his eyes were gritty, but he had to take care of Tony first.

 

Tony sneezed and started to rub his eyes but Gibbs stopped him. “Don’t touch your eyes! You have to wash them out.” After he’d helped Tony over to a sink equipped with eye irrigation, and made sure he thoroughly rinsed his eyes, nose and mouth, he did the same for himself. The cool water certainly helped minimize the burning sensation.

 

Rossi, accompanied by Ducky, hurried into the decon room, carrying an armful of towels and a bag of supplies. Ducky gave Tony a quick assessment and said, “You need to get in the decontamination shower immediately. Use plenty of soap but don’t scrub too hard. You, too, Jethro.”

 

Gibbs was already removing Tony’s clothes, with Rossi’s help. Tony was coughing again, but he tried to push them both away. “I can… do it… myself.”

 

“Do as you’re told, DiNozzo,” Gibbs said sharply. “What the hell is going on, Duck?”

 

“They’re saying on the news it was an industrial accident, but it’s too early to tell. No matter, the faster you decontaminate, the better.” There was a whooshing sound from overhead and Ducky said, “Oh dear, they’ve turned the ventilation off.”

 

The lights flickered but didn’t go out. “Let’s get this done before the power quits on us. Gibbs, I can take care of him,” Rossi said. He pushed aside Tony’s weak attempt to help, efficiently removing his pants, shoes and socks, while Gibbs stripped off his own clothes and left them in a pile on the floor.

 

While they stripped, Ducky put on protective covering and gloves, as well as a mask with a facial visor. He gathered all the clothing, even their shoes and watches, and threw them in a large orange trashcan with a hazardous waste warning emblazoned on it.

 

Now naked, Gibbs helped Tony to his feet, wrapped an arm around his waist, and together they squeezed into one of the HazMat shower stalls. The water was cold at first, but it soon warmed up. They quickly rinsed the soot from their hair and skin. The water turned a deep magenta color as it swirled around their feet before sluicing down the drain, and that alarmed Gibbs. This wasn’t any ordinary ash. Tony was able to stand on his own, although he was still coughing, and every time he did so, he groaned and looked miserable.

 

“Here, let me take care of you,” Gibbs said, lathering up a sponge and washing his partner from head to toe, including his ears. He could feel Tony trembling, and not knowing what else to do, Gibbs gently kissed him. Tony’s arms wound around his neck, pulling him in for another kiss, this one tainted with a hint of desperation. There was no privacy curtain on the shower stall but Gibbs was beyond caring who saw them. Being outed in a gay relationship with his SIC seemed small potatoes next to a disaster like this “You’re going to be fine. We’ll get through this,” Gibbs whispered to him. Tony nodded, but he seemed to be in shock. While Gibbs washed himself, Tony steadied himself with his hands on Gibbs’ shoulders, as if he needed the personal contact to anchor him.

 

Rossi and Ducky stayed nearby in case they were needed. Gibbs could hear Rossi on his phone – at least they had communication abilities. Ducky was also calling someone, Abby from the sound of it. When he was done with his call, Ducky raised his voice to say, “Jethro, Timothy is with Abby in her lab, and they have sealed themselves in. The director is sealed in MTAC, and has been issuing orders from there. Everyone is to remain where they are until we find out what is happening, and what course of action to take.”

 

Gibbs turned off the water and stepped out with Tony.

 

Rossi handed them towels and said, “We’re going to Autopsy to regroup.”

 

“Where’s Reid?” asked Gibbs, making sure that Tony was able to dry himself off. He was pale, now the dust had been washed off, but his coughing had subsided.

 

“He helped get the survivors to the emergency shelter, and he’s evaluating the situation. Some of them are cleaning off now.” Rossi indicated a handful of people using the showers. A couple of NCIS employees – a firearms trainer and a woman he knew from the Armory – were handing out towels and NCIS sweats from the gym.

 

Ducky went over to do a quick triage of the people who had been affected by the fallout dust, and gave them instructions to drink plenty of fluids and to proceed to the shelter where cots were being set up. A couple of people were coughing, but nobody seemed half as bad as Tony had been. What action they were supposed to take when they knew nothing about how dangerous the dark soot might be, Gibbs didn’t know. They needed to get a sample of the fallout dust to Abby.

 

Tony dressed himself in a t-shirt and sweatpants, but his movements were slow and the coughing had started up again. Gibbs quickly pulled on the clothing provided. He would have liked some shoes, too, but he’d figure that out later. He had a spare pair in his locker in the gym dressing room.

 

Gibbs was glad to see that Rochelle, now wearing borrowed sweats, was ambulatory. She, and others, were being escorted towards the part of the building set up as an emergency shelter, on the far side of the gym. He thought about all the people who had run into the NCIS building for cover. God, there were hundreds of people working in their building that day, and there were thousands of employees in other buildings, plus visitors and tourists. Had they all made it safely to some type of shelter?

 

Tony was asking him something, his voice a hoarse whisper. Gibbs understood though, and replied, “There are enough supplies in the shelter for 500 people?” He looked to Ducky for confirmation.

 

Ducky said, “More than that. Enough for several days. As a child, I slept many a night in public shelters while bombs dropped above us. We soon learned to sleep through the bombings. Sang many a song for entertainment. Now, let us proceed to Autopsy.” Ducky ushered the three agents out of the decon area. “I need to examine Anthony immediately. But then I must see if there are any serious injuries among the survivors, and if anyone else was badly affected by the fallout.”

 

Gibbs agreed, as he was anxious for Ducky to help Tony with the constant coughing. He was going to have to make some calls, first one to the director. “Shit, where’s my phone?”

 

Rossi said apologetically. “In the hazardous waste bin. Protocol says everything is potentially contaminated. I’ll loan you mine.”

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

Ducky steered them into a small room between his office and a supply room in Autopsy. Gibbs was surprised to see a gurney with a thick mattress and pillows parked against one wall. He raised the end of the bed to a 25-degree angle and got Tony to lie down on it so Ducky could do his thing. Tony’s responses to the ME’s questions were interspersed with hacking coughs, but Ducky’s expression remained neutral as he took his blood pressure and listened to his lungs.

 

When the exam was complete, Ducky told Gibbs, in a low voice, “I am concerned about the sound of Anthony’s lungs. I will give him oxygen, but he will need more than I can provide. My resources here are rather limited.”

 

Not liking the sound of that, Gibbs asked, “What does he need?”

 

“Medications, to begin with.”

 

“You tell me what you need, and I’ll get it,” said Gibbs.

 

“It isn’t that simple,” Ducky replied.

 

“Hell, Ducky, why don’t I just drive him to the hospital?”

 

Rossi, who was standing in the doorway, put his phone away and said, “Reid just confirmed: It’s official that the whole Yard is under lockdown due to air contaminants. Until they figure exactly what that fallout consists of, and what danger we’re in, nobody is going anywhere. Plus, they don’t want us to spread the dust to clean areas.”

 

“You really think that’s gonna stop me?” asked Gibbs, getting angry.

 

“There are rules in place for a reason, Jethro. Even for those we love,” Ducky said.

 

Tony, who had one forearm across his eyes, said in a rough voice, “You know Gibbs only follows his own rules.”

 

“You cannot drive in these conditions, Jethro,” Ducky admonished. “Besides, for all we know, those explosions were from missiles, and we may yet be fired upon.”

 

Once again, Rossi offered information. “Wasn’t an air strike, according to the latest intel. It was several smaller explosions and then one big one. Source was at ground level, not far from here.”

 

“I don’t care if it was from outer space,” Gibbs retorted. “Tony needs to get to a hospital, or else we need everything required to treat him here.”

 

“For God’s sake, just give me a… Teletubby suit, and I’ll… walk there,” Tony said, sitting up. Gibbs immediately pushed him back down and gave him a stern look.

 

“You’ll never get out of the building,” Rossi said. “They've set up guards on all the exits, and there’s a ring of military units creating a perimeter beyond the blast zone, as we speak, according to the FBI’s sources.”

“What about emergencies? Hospitals?” asked Ducky.

 

“They’re closed up tight, nobody in or out, Dr. Mallard,” Rossi replied. “Official report is that the blast radius wasn’t that big, but a lot of people rushed to the nearest hospitals. They’re overwhelmed, as it is.”

 

Ducky said decisively, “That means that you, young man, are not going anywhere. You may as well rest while you can. Now, let me set up the oxygen and you’ll feel much better for it.”

 

“Don’t want oxygen. Just make it stop.” Tony rolled onto his side and coughed several times.

 

Gibbs rubbed his back and said, “I wish I could.” Tony made a weak attempt at a smile. “When Ducky gives you an oxygen mask, don’t give him a hard time.” The bout of coughing wasn’t yet over, so Gibbs handed Tony a thick wad of tissues.

 

Tony held them to his mouth until he was finished. His hand dropped away from his mouth, revealing dark purple stains on the tissues. He stared at them. “Fuck, what is that?”

 

Ducky took the used tissues and handed Tony fresh ones. “It appears the fallout dust turns the color of dark pinot noir d’Alsace, leaning towards the blackcurrant, when it gets wet. Just cough up everything you can and don’t let it alarm you.”

 

Tony sent the ME a glare that pretty much said, ‘Yeah, right.’

 

While Ducky tried to make a petulant Tony more comfortable, Gibbs moved into the hallway to have a private word with Rossi. “Tell me everything else you know.”

 

Rossi quickly gave him a rundown on the latest information he’d heard from the FBI: There were several agencies already in place, investigating the cause of the explosion and the danger to the public, and the death toll was expected to be at least a thousand. “The source of the explosion is believed to be only a few blocks from here, on 12th Street.”

 

“12th Street?” Gibbs asked, his brain reeling with this latest information. That’s where they’d been just a few hours earlier.

 

Rossi nodded and delivered the bad news. “It isn’t official yet, but it appears that ground zero is where Vitex used to stand.”

 

Gibbs stared at the FBI agent for a long moment, then asked, “Any survivors?”

 

“Not expected to be any. The whole place was leveled,” Rossi said. “They think an initial small explosion set off a chain reaction, and whatever the hell rained down on everyone was a mixture of dozens of chemicals, most likely including some experimental substances. It’s too early to tell what caused the blast, but the big explosion hit 2.1 on the Richter scale. It leveled all the buildings on the block, damaged dozens more, and, I’m afraid, took hundreds of lives.”

 

“Accident or not?” Gibbs asked grimly.

 

“We still don’t know. Look, I’m going to find Reid and see what we can do to help. Your director says Agent McGee and Ms. Sciuto have already set up a secure information and communication hub in the forensics lab, and they’re linked into MTAC. McGee wants to talk to you.” Rossi handed Gibbs a phone. “My spare. Consider it a gift from the FBI.”

 

“You carry two phones?”

 

“And two guns. Never leave home without a backup. Oh, and the director of the FBI’s private number is in there. Do me a favor and don’t leave him any prank calls,” Rossi said with a wink.

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

Before Gibbs left to check on Abby and McGee, Rochelle cautiously entered Autopsy. Gibbs went over to greet her, and although she coughed a couple of times, she didn’t seem adversely affected by having breathed in the fallout dust.

 

Clearing her throat, Rochelle said hesitantly, “I- I need to thank Tony. If he hadn’t helped me – you, too – I don’t know what…”

 

“You can tell him yourself,” Gibbs suggested. He led the way to Tony’s small room, where he was lying propped up with an oxygen mask on his face. As soon as Tony saw who it was, his eyes lit up. She sat by the bed and held his hand, and after thanking him, she started to tell him an amusing story about one of her customers.

 

Glad Rochelle was there to keep Tony company, Gibbs went to get his go-bag from his gym locker. He slipped on some socks and sneakers, and headed straight over to Abby’s lab. They had to communicate through an intercom as Abby and Tim had sealed themselves in, but they gave Gibbs a thorough rundown on what they knew. It was pretty much the same as Rossi’s report, and McGee said they were monitoring all the news and chatter. The Internet was going crazy.

 

“There’s so much speculation, it’s hard to figure out what’s true and what’s conjecture,” McGee said.

 

“My vote is on the alien spaceship theory,” Abby said excitedly. She asked how their colleagues were faring. “We can’t get through to some people,” she said, concerned. “The cell reception is spotty, but Jimmy and Breena are fine. We told Jimmy not to come near until it’s safe. What about you? Where’s Tony?”

 

“DiNozzo breathed in some of that purple crap coming down. Ducky’s taking care of him,” Gibbs revealed. He averted his head to cough and when he turned back, Abby was looking at him with wide eyes. “I’m fine, just a cough. How do I get my numbers in this thing?” He held up his borrowed FBI phone. McGee had to explain how to locate the borrowed phone’s number. Once that was sorted out, Abby held up a small device that remotely programmed all of Gibbs’ commonly used phone numbers into it. To Gibbs, that kind of ability was pretty impressive. “You two, stay safe,” he ordered, and hurried back to Tony’s side.

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 


	9. Containment

CHAPTER 9 – CONTAINMENT

 

Before he went back to Autopsy, Gibbs made a pit stop in the men’s room to deal with an urgent need to cough. He couldn't let Ducky hear him coughing, or he’d be grounded. It took a few minutes for the coughing session to cease, and when he was done, Gibbs leaned over the sink and spat out something. As soon as he saw it looked like the black pudding his grandmother used to make, he had to rush to the toilet to throw up his lunch. He flushed without looking at the purple-tinged black crap he’d expelled. Strangely, he felt better after rinsing his mouth and splashing water on his face. Not great, but at least it didn’t feel like something awful was sitting on his chest.

 

After taking a few deep, cleansing breaths – without coughing – Gibbs returned to Autopsy. There, he signaled for Ducky to join him in the hall outside Tony’s room. “How’s he doing, Duck?” He could see Tony’s chest rising and falling unevenly, and even though he was equipped with an oxygen mask, it seemed as though it was difficult for him to breathe. His eyes were closed and every now and then he coughed.

 

Softly, the ME said, “I x-rayed his chest and although Anthony does not have pneumonia, he has a great deal of congestion, and some pain when breathing.” Gibbs didn’t need to be an expert at reading facial expressions to know that Tony’s prognosis was not good. Ducky added, “Anthony’s O2 level is a little better than when he came in. The oxygen is helping.”

 

“But it isn’t enough?”

 

With a helpless shrug, Ducky said, “I’m afraid not. He isn’t in any immediate danger, but he needs specialized breathing treatments, and medications – albuterol, for starters. Anthony’s condition could worsen without warning, and I fear it will become increasingly difficult for him to breathe, especially as he becomes exhausted. It is an effort right now for him to take in a deep breath.”

 

“Damn it, I need to do something. Just tell me.”

 

“I’ve heard you coughing, despite your efforts to hide it. And, from the way you’re holding yourself, I’d say your shoulder is causing you some pain,” Ducky said sternly.

 

Gibbs waved Ducky’s concerns away. “My shoulder’s fine.”

 

“Then lift your right arm high, as if you are reaching for an item on the top shelf,” Ducky challenged.

 

“Okay, so it’s not fine. But it’s tolerable. I’m not gonna let it slow me down, Duck.” Gibbs suppressed another cough that was tickling his throat. “I’m going to get both of us in those bubble suits and drive him to the nearest hospital.”

 

“There are blockades,” Ducky reminded him.

 

“Hell, I’ll smash through them. C’mon, Duck, help me here. You really want to wait until he’s so bad we can’t do anything for him?”

 

“And what if Anthony’s condition worsens when you’re driving, or if he is choking or vomiting, and you cannot break the seal on the suit quickly enough?” Ducky shook his head. “I cannot allow it. There is, however, something you can do.”

 

“Anything,” Gibbs quickly replied.

 

“I was able to make contact with Dr. Andreas at the Medical Office across the Yard, and he says there are some supplies they can spare from the infirmary.”

 

“Good. I can take Tony there,” Gibbs said, knowing it was the best solution. He turned away and raised his arm to cough into his elbow, but there was no way of hiding the dark smudge left on his sleeve.

 

Ducky laid a hand on Gibbs’ shoulder. “That is not possible. Even if you were able to go, and the severity of your cough suggests otherwise, they won’t let him in! Nobody goes in or out; it is a total lockdown. But… Dr. Andreas has agreed to place the items I have requested in a bag between the doors at the entryway, and once I find someone to go there–”

 

“I’ll go,” Gibbs said, glad there was something he could do. He’d already been informed that blockades had been set up across the streets around the Yard, so driving to the medical center wasn’t an option.

 

Ducky hesitated. “It would be a very long trek in a containment suit, Jethro.”

 

“Then get me a respirator. That’s all I need.”

 

Ducky looked horrified. “Without adequate skin protection, you could be seriously injured by chemical burns or–”

 

Gibbs raised a hand to stop the inevitable lecture. “I don’t have to go outside. I can use the emergency access tunnel.”

 

“You know the tunnel doesn’t go all the way to Building 175, and I won’t allow–”

 

“For God’s sake, Ducky! It’s only one street. I’ll sprint across.” By that point, Gibbs would have promised Ducky anything, so long as the doctor in the infirmary handed over a kit of whatever they needed to help Tony. He felt another bout of coughing coming on and moved over to the large metal sink against the far wall. He coughed several times and spat up an alarming quantity of purple-gray matter, and then that set off another coughing fit. Finally, when the coughing had eased, he rinsed his mouth and wiped his face with paper towel.

 

“That cough sounds bad, Jethro. You need to slow down,” Ducky said, concerned.

 

Not as bad as Tony’s cough, Gibbs wanted to say. He cleared his throat. “It’s just the crap I breathed in. I feel fine.”

 

A voice from behind them said, “We’ll go pick it up.”

 

Gibbs turned and found Dr. Reid and Agent Rossi standing behind them.

 

It was Reid who stepped forward. “I’ll know better than you what Tony needs, in case the doctor on the other end hasn’t put together an adequate care package.”

 

“Just give us directions,” Rossi said. “Not much for us to do around here anyway, and you need to stay close.”

 

He didn’t add ‘just in case Tony takes a turn for the worse,’ but just the same, Gibbs could hear the words loud and clear.

 

Ducky turned to Gibbs. “That’s settled then. As soon as I finish helping these gentlemen with their breathing gear, I shall give you a dose of expectorant to loosen you up. And then we shall see about your overdue physical checkup, Agent Gibbs. Don’t you agree?”

 

Gibbs’ response was a groan.

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

Gibbs was sitting in a comfortable chair – Ducky had dragged it over from his office ­– next to Tony’s bed. He’d dimmed the lights to allow Tony to sleep, but left the door open; even with a small portable fan blowing on them, it was a bit stuffy.

 

The storeroom was small, with a small desk and some industrial shelving on one side, and a mini-fridge currently being used as a bedside table. Apparently Gerald had commandeered this room when he’d worked here, which explained the bed and its good mattress, perfect for catching a nap when doing an overnight shift. A poster for an art show featuring a reggae-themed painting was the only decoration; its bold black and red graphics looked too much like blood for Gibbs’ liking.

 

On the shelves were paper products and stacks of surgical gowns, boxes of non-latex gloves and other supplies. At eye level sat a box with the words ‘Jimmy’s Emerg Supplies,’ with a skull-and-crossbones drawn in sharpie on the end. Gibbs had peeked at the contents and found power bars, trail mix, rice cakes and a jar of natural peanut butter – snacks a diabetic like Jimmy might keep on hand. In the fridge were several bottles of cucumber water and almond milk. Thank God Ducky had a coffee pot and an endless supply of real coffee in his office.

 

Gibbs peered at his watch, borrowed from a collection Ducky kept in his desk – he didn’t ask their origin – and saw it was 8 PM. It had been almost two hours since Reid and Rossi had volunteered to traverse the tunnels that would lead them under the Navy Yard. He’d used the tunnels himself a couple of times, but only to nearby buildings. The underground passages were considered off-limits to all but a few people. They’d had to coerce the Navy Yard security to give the FBI agents keypad codes for any checkpoints they encountered.

 

Ducky had provided a hand-drawn map for what Dr. Reid called ‘the away team,’ and he had fitted them with protective suits, complete with respirators and enough air in the tanks to last 90 minutes.

 

Gibbs sighed and drank some coffee, watching Tony cough a few times before settling back into an uneasy sleep. Even if their corner of the world had gone to hell in a hand basket, at least there was hot coffee still available.

 

McGee had been sending him texts with the latest updates. It was confirmed that Vitex was at the center of the blast. Every available agency was doing their best to assess the situation; emergency plans were holding steady. The death toll had risen to an estimated 2000, all deaths occurring within a small radius of the explosion. They had to assume everyone within a block of Vitex’s building had perished immediately. ‘Vaporized’ was the word McGee used. Fully equipped teams were collecting the dead, but nobody else was on the streets. Even looters had the sense to stay at home.

 

All the buildings in the Navy Yard had some type of barracks-type shelter in their lowest levels. Mostly they were used for overnight stays in case of impassable weather conditions, though they were secure enough to keep out hostile shooters until help arrived. They were equipped to house hundreds of employees, and had enough stores of food and water, cots and blankets to last several days. With the air conditioning turned off, they soon became quite uncomfortable. Fans were set up but it wouldn’t be long before everyone was itching to go home. Each shelter had a supervisor and assistants, and guards to keep the peace, but it was, as Abby had said, “like keeping restless puppies in a bathtub.”

 

McGee phoned to say, “It’s raining, really heavily. Like Biblically.”

 

“Is that bad?”

 

“Not at all,” McGee replied, sounding excited. “According to Abby, it’s good. She’s been running tests on the dust – she’s named it the ‘purple haze’ – and it degrades immediately when combined with water.”

 

“What about us? We both breathed it in. DiNozzo a hell of a lot more than me,” Gibbs said. He didn’t want to remember Tony puking up gobs of purple-tinted black crap, which he’d done twice now – or his own personal experiences with the same – but it had to be beneficial to expel it like that. Gibbs started coughing, just thinking about it, and it was a while before it stopped and he was able to breathe again – great, gasping inhalations.

 

“Boos? Boss? Are you okay?”

 

Gibbs swallowed some bile and wiped the sweat off his forehead. Shit, what a nightmare. McGee, and now Abby were calling to him over the phone, which he’d dropped. With a sigh he picked it up and said, “I’m good. It’s Tony I’m worried about.”

 

“We have no idea what the long-term effects on humans are,” McGee said, sounding apologetic. “But they’re sure to be looking at that.”

 

“It’s now I’m worried about,” Gibbs admitted. He glanced at his partner, his friend and lover. He was pale, with flushed cheeks, and he’d just noticed that Tony’s fingertips were turning an odd shade of purple, as if they were lightly bruised. He quickly finished up his call, saying, “Keep me posted.” He rose, planning on getting Ducky, but Tony reached out and touched him. Gibbs coughed a few times before leaning over to ask, “Hey, how’re you doing?”

 

“You’re sick.” Tony’s voice was muffled behind the clear plastic oxygen mask.

 

“I’m fine. Nothing for you to worry about,” Gibbs said.

 

Tony blinked a couple of times, as if he didn’t remember where he was. “I fell asleep.”

 

“Yeah. Just what you needed.” Gibbs stroked the hair back from Tony’s forehead, noting how hot he seemed. His eyes… looked odd. “Tony, open your eyes for me,” he encouraged, as Tony’s eyelids drooped. With a small moan, Tony did as he was told. His eyes, his beautiful green eyes, were no longer green – the irises were now a color somewhere between a deep pink and purple. Gibbs knew he was staring, but the change was startling.

 

Tony frowned a little, and said, with great effort, “What’s wrong?”

 

Gibbs came to his sense and gently cupped Tony’s cheek, saying, “You thirsty?”

 

Tony nodded and Gibbs slipped an arm behind his shoulders to raise him enough to drink some water from a bottle. After a few sips, Tony made a choking sound, and all of a sudden leaned to one side and coughed up a quantity of dark stuff. There was blood in it.

 

Gibbs yelled for Ducky, and he was there almost immediately.

 

“They have just returned,” Ducky said, and a moment later Rossi and Reid entered carrying a bag full of medical supplies.

 

“Glad to see you made it,” Gibbs said, as he cleaned around Tony’s mouth and chin. He threw a few sheets of paper towel over the purple-black vomit, and got out of Ducky’s way.

 

They unpacked the medical supplies while Ducky started a new IV line in the back of Tony’s hand. Tony had fallen back on his pillows, and was wheezing with every exhalation. He seemed out of it, his eyes closed, and didn’t respond to Ducky’s gentle questions.

 

Both of the FBI agents looked like they’d been through the wringer. They’d divested themselves of the bubble suits and had stripped down to t-shirts and scrub pants. When Rossi left to get some bottled water, Reid said to Gibbs, “We ran out of O2 on the way back, but we figured the air quality in the tunnels was good.” He shrugged and gave a small smile. “It’s a lot easier to jog without those suits on. How is Agent DiNozzo doing, Dr. Mallard?”

 

“He definitely needs this medication,” Ducky said, injecting the contents of a syringe into Tony’s IV.

 

It didn’t take a medical degree to see that Tony’s labored breathing was worsening, despite the medicine. Gibbs hated leaving Tony’s side, but Ducky and Reid needed room to work. Reid helped prepare the new medication to be delivered through a nebulizer. He seemed to know what he was doing, so Gibbs backed out.

 

Ducky settled a nebulizer mask over Tony’s nose and mouth. He tried to rouse Tony, but he was unresponsive.

 

Gibbs hated feeling so useless. He couldn't stand around watching Tony struggling to breathe any longer, and, feeling like a coward, retreated to Autopsy. He took a breather and guzzled a bottle of water while watching Rossi pack up the HazMat gear they’d worn on their mission to bring back the much-needed medications. He thanked Rossi, who nodded and said they were glad to be able to help. Reid emerged from Tony’s room, and Gibbs could see in his eyes that he didn’t hold out much hope for Tony pulling through.

 

Rossi related how they’d hit a roadblock and wasted time convincing guards at the NCIS building’s exit to allow them to pass. “We tried to convince them this was urgent, but they didn’t budge until I mentioned your name, Gibbs, and then it was like the Red Sea parting.” The doctor at the infirmary had placed the supplies in between double doors, and had spoken to them through the glass. Reid said matter-of-factly that most the people who had inhaled the fallout had died within minutes of their arrival at the clinic. He was calculating the odds of survival, factoring in how much dust they’d inhaled, but Gibbs didn’t want to hear about it.

 

This whole thing was far too reminiscent of the time when Tony contracted Y. pestis, and had barely survived. How was he going to make it through this, with his damaged lungs, if healthy people had succumbed to the fallout dust? Gibbs realized Reid was no longer speaking. Rossi must have stilled his colleague, for which Gibbs was grateful. He thanked them again, and went to see how Tony was doing.

 

There was no other way to say it: Tony looked near death. His face was so pale, and his skin – his chest, his hands – were all that strange purplish color. Ducky was monitoring the nebulizer treatment, but he insisted that Gibbs sit beside the ill man. “Hold his hand, speak to him,” Ducky urged, getting out of the way.

 

Gibbs did as he was told, gently squeezing Tony’s hand and raising it to his mouth. He kissed the cool skin, wishing it were him lying here and not his brave, foolhardy Tony, who was now paying for his efforts to save Rochelle, and then Delores, with his own life.

 

Ducky said he would return shortly, and Gibbs gave him the barest of nods of acknowledgment. He wasn’t about to leave Tony’s side again.

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

 


	10. Renewal

CHAPTER 10 – RENEWAL

_Saturday, July 25, 2009_

 

Gibbs awoke slowly, coughing and rubbing his eyes. God, he felt like shit. He must have been asleep for a long time, judging by the stiffness in his neck and back. The room was dimly lit and it could have been morning or midnight, for all he knew. His borrowed watch said it was six o’clock; he was dealing with the catastrophe at 6 PM, so it had to be morning. He stretched painfully, and his heart leaped in alarm as he realized that Tony was no longer in bed. What the hell? Jesus, had he died and they’d taken him away without waking him?

 

A horrible vision of Ducky doing an autopsy on his Tony made Gibbs jump frantically to his feet. He was rushing out the door when he caught sight of movement in the corner of the small room. He could hardly believe it – it was Tony, sitting on the floor in the dark, stuffing a rice cake in his mouth, acting as if nothing was wrong. All around him lay the cellophane wrappings of Jimmy Palmer’s emergency snacks, plus a dozen empty bottles that had contained water and almond milk – had Tony really consumed them all?

 

“Tony…” Gibbs said cautiously, knowing something was wrong with this picture.

 

Tony continued chewing. “’m really hungry, like fucking starving,” he said with a smile, licking his fingers when the last of the food was gone. He guzzled the last bottle of almond milk, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and gave a drawn-out satisfied sigh. “I don’t think I’ve ever been that hungry before.”

 

“I’ll get you more if you want.” Gibbs crouched down and stared at Tony in disbelief. His skin was no longer purple, nor were his lips chapped or his eyes dull with fever, and best of all, he seemed to be breathing normally. His eyes weren’t that bizarre pinkish-purple color – they were the familiar green, although a little bloodshot. Not knowing what to make of this incredible change, this transformation, this _miracle_ – Gibbs simply cried out and pulled Tony into his arms, hugging him tightly.

 

Tony’s arms wrapped around him in return, strong and loving. Pressing his face into the side of Gibbs’ neck, Tony mumbled, “Can we go home now?”

 

Gibbs couldn't help it; whether it was from sheer exhaustion or relief, he started laughing. Tony laughed with him, and Gibbs’ laughter turned to tears of thankfulness and joy. He kissed Tony, and Tony kissed him back, and it was the best feeling ever. Gibbs sat beside Tony and held him close, rocking him a bit, kissing his hair and cheek and the corner of his mouth. He couldn't get enough of him – and Tony turned his head and kissed him back, slow and deep, overwhelming him with emotion.

 

Tony broke the kiss, just to whisper, “I’m all right. I really am.”

 

Gibbs nodded, content to simply hold Tony for the rest of his life.

 

That was how Ducky found them when he walked in carrying a cup of coffee and a refill vial of medication for Tony’s nebulizer. For the first time since Gibbs had known him, he seemed at a loss for words, other than, “Oh, my.”

 

A moment later the NCIS building’s air circulation system kicked on, and a blast of fresh air flowed through the building to the sound of cheers.

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

**_Monday, July 27, 2009_ **

 

After three days of self-imposed quarantine, Abby and McGee emerged from the forensics lab to join Ducky, Gibbs and Tony in Autopsy. McGee was overheard saying that Abby had been on her last bottle of Caf-Pow! so he had been prepared to come out anyway. They’d survived on MREs and cupcakes, and soup Abby had concocted from ingredients she had on hand.

 

After lots of hugs and kisses and tears, followed by more hugs and kisses, Ducky announced he needed to give Tony one last check-up before he was free to go home. Although he had expressed his amazement at Tony’s incredible recovery, as were they all, the ME was what he called ‘optimistically cautious,’ and said he needed further monitoring.

 

Gibbs’ cough had also receded, with the help of some medications Ducky provided. They’d located another cot and he’d set it up right next to Tony’s gurney so they could keep an eye on each other. For the first time since the whole thing had started, he had a good night’s sleep, and so did Tony.

 

Now the two missing scientists were safe and sound, and Randolph Jerome had admitted to manslaughter of Capt. Boucher, Reid and Rossi said their good-byes to the NCIS team. Vitex was already being investigated for their questionable lab practices, although by the time McGee and the FBI’s technical analyst Penelope Garcia had broken into Vitex’s secure files, everything there had been deleted and purged.

 

Gibbs thanked the two members of the BAU team once again, for bringing back the much-needed medical supplies for Tony, but they made light of their actions. They had to return to the FBI offices to file their reports and, as Rossi put it, “To get back to normal things like crazy-as-fuck serial killers.”

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

Agent Rossi and his team ultimately concluded that Capt. Boucher had been the one to recommend the scientists, Dr. Guittierez and Dr. Reisenberg, to Van Daalen, as she knew their work. There was no proof she had actually taken part in their kidnapping, or even knew about it.

 

As they’d surmised, the two scientists had been taken to Vitex and kept locked in a secure area, where they were forced to work on a cure for Mrs. Odell. Unfortunately, Mrs. Odell died of organ failure before the kidnapped scientists had been able to develop an antidote, or even a workable treatment for her condition.

 

The FBI also concluded that Drs. Guittierez and Reisenberg could thank Randolph Jerome for being alive. On the same night he had accidentally killed Capt. Bouchard, Jerome had planted his explosive device in an area containing huge vats of dangerous and volatile chemicals, then snuck the two scientists out in a company van and released them – for no other reason than to get back at Hugo Van Daalen for stealing his girlfriend.

 

“Damned lucky those scientists weren’t executed and stuffed in a barrel of chemicals,” Agent Rossi had said, when he informed Gibbs of their conclusions. “Somehow I doubt Van Daalen had any intention of ever letting them see the light of day again. Oh, and Mr. Odell said the skin cream was a gift from a friend of hers, one Anna Boucher.”

 

Gibbs asked, “Think she knew what she was giving Mrs. Odell?”

 

“What motive would she have? I think it was simply a case of two women sharing beauty products,” Rossi concluded.

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

NCIS, the FBI, Homeland Security, the US Chemical Safety and Hazard Investigation Board (CSHI) and the Terrorist Explosive Device Analytical Center (TEDAC), and a handful of other agencies all wanted a piece of Randolph Jerome. Jerome, who was still in NCIS custody, had freely admitted he had set the explosive device in the storage area at Vitex, known as section 8, that had not only obliterated the building and everyone in it, and had affected every living thing with a quarter-mile radius.

 

Scientists were scratching their heads over exactly what the fallout consisted of, because all traces of it had washed away in what many were calling a post-apocalyptic rainstorm – 20 inches of rain in 24 hours. All Gibbs knew for certain was that this reckless man had had almost killed the person in the world he cared most about, all in the name of jealousy.

 

Most of DC had been shut down for three days. Just as the populace – including those who had taken shelter in the Navy Yard building, were demanding they be allowed to return to their homes and loved ones, the government lifted the ban and decreed everyone was free to go after a health screening. Doctors were brought in, and they soon found that most of the people who had taken refuge in the Navy Yard shelters were good to go. Only a handful of people who had inhaled the toxic fallout had survived, and those people were immediately whisked away to a special unit at Washington General for further care.

 

The government acted quickly in the wake of the massive explosion. A special investigative unit was created, the Biohazard Investigation Testing & Evaluation, or BITE. Their job was to evaluate the initial explosion, the toxic fallout it created, and its impact on all life forms within its range. They were sending teams of doctors and investigators around to assess anyone affected by the aftermath, and the populace was under orders to submit to any and all testing by BITE.

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

After having a hug-fest with Tony, Abby said she had to go back to her lab and finish up some work before going home. Like the others, she hadn’t left NCIS for the past three days. A short time later she phoned Gibbs and said she needed him to come down. Immediately.

 

The minute he arrived, she ran into his arms, crying, “Gibbs! Gibbs! Gibbs!”

 

“I’m here, Abs,” he said. “You have something for me?”

 

“I do, but first, how is Tony?”

“You saw him an hour ago, and he’s still good. If we stay here much longer, there won’t be any food left in the building,” Gibbs said impatiently. Even though Tony showed no sign of regressing, he had continued to exhibit an unusually hearty appetite. Gibbs wanted to wrap this up so he could get Tony home. “Tell me what you found,” he ordered.

 

Abby saluted and said, “I have some good news and some bad news. Except now I know the bad news, I guess that makes it good news for us, because there’s no way they know we know what we know. Well, _I_ know, and nobody else knows, because I sort of gained access to something that I shouldn't have, which is why I’m going to tell you, and you can do your Gibbs thing and do the voodoo that you do!”

 

“Abs, just tell me,” Gibbs said.

 

“Okay. The bad news is that Vitex’s most secure data was kept on their premises, so it went kaboom with the rest of the building, and all those poor people who got extinguished along with their studies and experiments, and who-knows-what vital findings that are now lost forever. Except they may have transferred a copy of all their data to their head office in Zurich… but I’ll work on that later.”

 

“Okay…”

 

“The good news is they kept records of everything everybody did on a local server, like keystrokes and appointments and who met with who, and that server’s security sucks big time.”

 

“And?”

 

“And… I found the CEO’s appointment book was accessible, and he had placed an order for a driver on Friday at 1 o’clock. There was also a confirmation he was meeting with an investor at La Chaise Bleu, way on the other side of DC – at the time of the blast.” Abby looked expectantly at Gibbs, and continued, “I double-checked and Van Daalen’s still alive!”

 

“Shit.” Gibbs ran a hand through his hair, and asked, “What about…”

 

“Marcos Santana, his head of security?” Somehow Abby knew what he was thinking half the time. “He was Van Daalen’s protection detail that day, so he also survived.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

“There’s more… and it’s not good. Van Daalen has been appointed to the board of the Biohazard Investigation Testing & Evaluation, so _he’s_ investigating the results of the explosion that killed a thousand people, totally due to his own negligence. How sick and twisted is that? It’s like sticking the fox in the henhouse. I mean, he _had_ to have something to do with it, or, at least, he’s ultimately responsible.”

 

McGee joined them, appearing excited. “Hey Boss, I’ve been looking for you.”

 

“Don’t you two have homes to go to?” Gibbs demanded.

 

“Yeah, but this is more interesting,” McGee admitted. “I just came from MTAC. We found some info Vitex buried. They weren’t working exclusively on medical studies. Apparently they’ve been doing a study on chemical dynamics in extreme conditions. That’s chemical reactions occurring with very fast reaction rates. We don't fully understand the first bond-breaking steps and the subsequent bond-breaking steps as an explosive detonates…”

 

“They had explosives on the premises?” Gibbs questioned.

 

“Yes, but they shouldn't have had any. The company was only allowed very small quantities of volatile substances, but apparently they had a huge stockpile,” McGee reported. “They were pretty paranoid about people stealing their research, so it fits that they’d keep everything under their own roof. Vitex had access to a licensed detonation range, the Ripley Hills Range, and according to the people who oversee it, they use it about once a month.”

 

Gibbs asked, “Are you saying this explosion was an accident?”

 

McGee slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so, Boss. When I looked into Randolph Jerome’s background and activities, I found he had accompanied Van Daalen and a team involved in this project to the firing range on several occasions. You understand there was no reason for him to join them. He was a liaison with hospitals and medical facilities, period.”

 

“Wait a minute, I remember seeing something…” Abby went to her computer and after a short while exclaimed, “Here it is! Randolph Jerome’s father was an Army explosive ordnance specialist, retired. He went on to manage Ripley Hills Range in West Virginia until he died two years ago. And Randolph himself worked there after college.”

 

“So he knew how to handle explosives,” Gibbs concluded.

 

“He may not have known the bomb he set off would cause such a huge chain reaction, Boss,” McGee said.

 

Abby added, “Or that the chemicals Vitex had on hand from other projects would merge with each other and create the purple haze, and kill so many people. But, Jerome lit the match…so to speak.”

 

McGee agreed. “He set off the initial explosive.”

 

Gibbs didn’t reply, he was so angry.

 

“One more thing,” Abby said, halting Gibbs before he could storm off. “That substance someone injected in Jerome’s neck? So far I haven’t been able to identify it, and you know me and Mr. MassSpec can identify anything, so I think it has to be a new synthetic substance. Now, Ducky’s examination of Jerome, just this morning, showed inflammation of the liver, and fluid build-up in his lungs. It doesn’t look good. They’re transporting him to the hospital.”

 

Gibbs knew he’d never be able to prove it, but he had a gut feeling that Santana had been the one to inject Jerome with poison when they’d caught him. “When?”

 

“Soon,” Abby said. “If you’re going to talk to him, You’d better go now.”

 

McGee looked up from his computer screen and asked, “Jerome’s lawyer, wasn’t he Robert Havenworth?”

 

“Why?” Gibbs asked.

 

“Havenworth was listed as missing by his law firm,” said McGee. “They said he went to the Vitex building to pick up Jerome’s personnel records and his belongings. But… we had already transported Jerome here. The lawyer was at Vitex when the bomb went off.”

 

Gibbs turned on his heel and made his way down to the holding cells, to confront Randolph Jerome one last time.

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

Jerome did not look good. His skin was sallow and he was sweating profusely. He raised his head off the thin mattress he was lying on, and begged for Gibbs to get him out of there. “I’m sick. I need help. I shouldn't be here in this cell! It wasn’t my fault!”

 

“The hell it wasn’t,” Gibbs growled. “You wanted revenge, to take away everything Van Daalen had. To prove you were better than him, that’s what you said.”

 

“I didn’t know….” Jerome got himself up on one elbow and coughed several times. “It wasn’t supposed to go off like that. I thought it would just… scare him….” He wrapped one arm around his middle and cried, “Oh God, it hurts so bad…”

 

Gibbs didn’t have one iota of sympathy for the man. “Your little bomb took out the whole block, and over a thousand innocent people are dead! People are fighting for their lives because you couldn't face up to the fact that your girlfriend had the hots for another man.”

 

“I need to go to the hospital! Where’s my lawyer? You’re purposely keeping him away! You have no right…”

 

Gibbs grabbed Jerome by the shirt and shook him. “Don’t you talk to me about rights, you piece of shit! You want to know why your lawyer didn’t turn up? Because he’s dead, that’s why! Yeah, he went to Vitex, and now he’s nothing but black dust.”

 

Gibbs released the man, and went to the door of the cell. “Oh, and by the way, you messed up big-time. Van Daalen survived. So did Santana. They get to live, while you’re going to die.” With that, he left the cell. He went into the nearest men’s room and thoroughly washed his hands before making a beeline for Autopsy.

 

The news came a couple of hours later that Jerome had died at the hospital. Gibbs, for one, was not about to grieve for him.

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

 


	11. Everything

CHAPTER 11 – EVERYTHING           

 

“No matter how many times you take my blood pressure or check my blood, Ducky, it’s not going to change,” Tony said from where he lay on the hard metal table in Autopsy.

 

“Just this one tissue sample, my boy…”

 

Tony winced as a very long needle was extracted from between his ribs. “Tell me, do you _want_ to find something wrong with me?” he asked, gritting his teeth. Damn, that hurt.

 

“Anthony, how can you even suggest…?” Ducky said, affronted. He carefully placed the tissue sample in a jar before sticking a large Band-Aid over the puncture wound. “There. Now, one last x-ray before I can clear you.”

 

With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Tony agreed, “Okay, but that’s it. No more needles. Deal?” He pressed the palm of his hand over the Band-Aid, and wished the pain away. He could feel warmth emanating from his palm, and to his surprise the sharp pain slowly receded, leaving a light tingling in its wake.

 

Jethro was by his side, as he had been through this entire thing. He didn’t wear that concerned-but-trying-not-to-show-it expression any longer, the one that was weirdly mixed with relief; he’d settled into stoic-Gibbs, who was a lot harder to read but a lot more welcome, as far as Tony was concerned. It meant things were getting back to normal.

 

Tony hated lying on the post-mortem table, with its cold, hard surface designed to catch bodily fluids, but it was the best place for the ME to capture a picture of his chest with the portable x-ray machine. Tony had told him several times that he was fine, that all the symptoms had disappeared – the congested lungs and difficulty breathing, the fever and purplish skin coloration, and the strange heavy feeling that had accompanied the later stages of the ‘purple haze.’ He had started referring to the toxic purplish black fallout by that name, ever since Abby had told him that’s what she’d christened it.

 

But there was more to it than just recuperating. Tony knew with absolute certainty that something inside him – his basic cellular makeup, his very core – had somehow been altered. He couldn't explain how he knew. He just did. It wasn’t just that he felt healthier, the best he had ever felt, in fact. Tony knew that every organ, sinew and corpuscle in his body was performing at top efficiency. His heart and lungs were working smarter, not harder, he thought, smiling.

 

The only downside was that his body seemed to require a large amount of calories to fuel it, and he was astounded at the amount of food he could consume at one sitting. He would get these incredible urges to eat, but once he’d eaten his fill, he was set for several hours.

 

Even his bad knee, the one he’d messed up in college sports, had improved. Instead of being vaguely aware of a constant discomfort, he now felt nothing. He’d flexed it this morning when he’d realized the odd feeling that was bothering him was the _absence_ of pain, and after doing a few trial deep-knee bends, and coming away feeling invigorated and incredibly positive, Tony accepted that things had changed – for the better.

 

He spent some time wondering if he was dreaming, or perhaps in a state of delusion brought on by oxygen deprivation. That didn’t seem right though. This was real. He had changed. Finally, after accepting that this was the way things were going to be from now on, and that he was the new Tony, he began to think of everything that could possibly go wrong.

 

Tony was a believer in accepting whatever life threw at him, but he also knew Fate was a fickle companion. Playing sports had taught him that you can’t make a huge win without some sacrifice, and being a cop showed him that every good deed is balanced by something bad. Gambling, too. Like he’d told the BAU agents, he only took a certain amount of cash with him whenever he infrequently visited a casino, and that $500 was an acceptable loss – one he expected, and so wasn’t disappointed.

 

Despite expecting the rug to be pulled out from under him at any moment, Tony was determined to enjoy his newly immaculate health. He swore that as soon as they got out of the NCIS sub-basement, he was taking Jethro home and they were going to spend an entire week in bed. It didn’t matter to him if it turned out to be a marathon sex party, or if they simply ate crackers in bed and cuddled the night away. He simply wanted to be alone with his man.

 

After all the crap he’d been through – Jethro, too – they deserved some time off, time together, and he didn’t care who the hell knew that they were a committed couple. This was their life and they were damned well going to live it to the fullest.

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

The x-ray results seemed to be bothering Ducky. He was making small sounds, hums and mms, and was frowning at length at the digital x-ray image of Tony’s chest on his computer.

 

Tony, who was now dressed and sitting on the autopsy table next to Gibbs and holding his hand, said with a sigh, “Just tell me the bad news.” Jethro’s grip on his hand was painful, but the last thing Tony was going to do was tell him to let go.

 

“Duck, what’s wrong?” Gibbs asked.

 

McGee and Abby, who had been standing to one side, moved closer.

 

Finally, Ducky said, “That’s the thing. There _is_ nothing wrong.”

 

Grinning, Tony hugged Gibbs, and Abby somehow got in between them so he hugged her, too. “Great! Clean bill of health. I’m going home!”

 

Ducky, however, was still wearing a concerned expression. “But… they should not look like this, so… pristine. Your lungs were irreversibly scarred by the plague, Anthony, and…”

 

“And now they aren’t?” Gibbs asked, eyeing Tony as if there was something wrong with getting a clean bill of health.

 

Tony raised his arms in exasperation. “How about everyone just be happy for me?”

 

Abby nudged Tony with an elbow. “We are! But we need to know _why_.”

 

“ _Why_ do you need to know?” Tony asked, shrugging it off. “Look, while you and Ducky put your heads together and puzzle this out, me and my pristine lungs are leaving.” He hopped off the table, smiling broadly. “I will be sooo happy to be home. I am going to have a hot shower with my favorite soap and Italian Alberti limone shampoo, and eat a nice big juicy steak… What d’you say, Jethro? You coming with me?”

 

Abby did a double take over the use of Gibbs’ first name, but Jethro shrugged and gave Tony a shy kind of smile, which made her jump up and down, squealing. She began to babble, demanding to know the how, what, where and when it had happened, while McGee was looking from Gibbs to Tony, puzzling over what she was talking about.

 

Tony saw exactly when the dime dropped; McGee’s eyebrows shot up and his mouth formed a perfect O, but after a moment, his expression relaxed and he gave Tony a genuine smile and punched him on the shoulder. “Shoot, you know how to live dangerously,” McGee said, shaking his head in bemusement.

 

Gibbs snorted. “And you don’t think Tony’s trouble?”

 

Tony slung his arm around Gibbs’ shoulder. “You do know I’ve been on my best behavior… so far… right?”

 

While Abby pulled McGee away to talk to him, Ducky approached Tony and Gibbs. He said quietly, “This phenomenon, this incredible change in your lungs, could very well be the result of inhaling the fallout material, and the bronchodilators you took. If the medication opened your airways and gave access to the foreign matter… Quite honestly, I don’t know what to make of it, but I believe it is in your best interest to allow me to study this further.”

 

“Hell no, we’ve had enough,” Gibbs protested.

 

“You want me to be a guinea pig?” Tony asked, annoyed.

 

Ducky replied, “It is for your own sake, my dear boy. But I should warn you… it is quite likely that, should this miraculous healing become general knowledge, you’ll have everyone in the medical and scientific field on your doorstep, wanting a piece of you. There could be some unfortunate consequences…”

 

Gibbs tensed and demanded, “You telling us he’s in danger of being taken off to some lab to be dissected?”

 

Tony turned to Gibbs and said, “Gee, thanks for that visual, Gibbs.”

 

“I didn’t mean…”

 

Tony laughed humorlessly. “But that’s what Ducky’s thinking, isn’t it? I mean, isn’t this the point where, in the movies, the bad guys come in and take over, for the good of science? And the poor sap who got infected with some kind of superpower has no say in any of it?”

 

Ducky’s desk phone rang and he went to answer it. The moment he hung up, he hurried over to Tony, announcing that there were representatives from the BITE in the building. “Currently they are in the director’s office.”

 

“Damn it!” Gibbs looked at his colleagues and warned them, “We can’t let this get out.”

 

“Of course not!” exclaimed Abby.

 

“We’re the only ones who know how bad Tony was, and we’ll keep our mouths shut,” McGee said in agreement.

 

“Except for those two FBI agents,” Abby reminded him.

 

Tony shook his head. “Rossi and Reid? They won’t say anything, they’re good guys. C’mon, you’re acting like these bio-cops are going to kidnap me or something.”

 

“This is serious, Anthony. We cannot allow this to be known. There are far too many unscrupulous people out there,” Ducky said, looking very worried.

 

Looking alarmed, McGee said, “Shoot, we need to destroy any evidence of the change to Tony’s health.”

 

Abby nodded vigorously and started giving directions. “McGee, take care of the records. Ducky, hide the biopsy samples you just took. I’ll get rid of these latest x-rays.”

 

Tony joined her at Ducky’s computer. “Then take one of my old x-rays and change the date on it, to today’s date. Chances are, someone’ll want to see the latest version, so we’ll give it them, the ones that show scarring on my lungs.”

 

Abby agreed and got to work. It only took her a few minutes to doctor the information at the top of the digital x-rays, making a few older ones appear to have been taken that very morning. Once McGee finished deleting any records that pointed to Tony having been deathly ill, and Ducky tossed out the medical supplies they’d used, Gibbs took over, saying, “Let’s go.”

 

Tony turned to Gibbs as they headed for the exit, and said, “Remind me to buy Palmer some snacks to replace everything I ate.” Gibbs never got a chance to answer. The Autopsy doors slid open and Director Vance entered, along with two men wearing suits and visitor badges.

 

“Gentlemen, Ms. Sciuto, these two men are on the Biohazard Investigation Testing & Evaluation team,” said Vance. He politely introduced them as Mr. Frake and Dr. Peters, but Tony could tell from the director’s manner he didn’t like the men from BITE very much. “They need any and all materials pertaining to victims of the fallout. Dr. Mallard...”

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

The minute they got in Gibbs’ car, Tony started laughing. It wasn’t funny, really, but he still laughed about it. “Did you see their expressions when Ducky started to describe the damage caused by the plague? How many times did he use the words ‘pustules’ and ‘oozing’? Oh, c’mon, Jethro, admit it, the whole thing was funny.”

 

Jethro drove out of the Navy Yard and hit the highway with a grim expression on his face. “No, I don’t find any of this funny, Tony. Those men were looking at you like they wanted to weigh your liver.”

 

“Well, I don’t think they knew what they getting into, being confronted by the five of us,” Tony said with an easy laugh. His teammates had skillfully run circles around the BITE investigators, almost as if it was a game. Humor aside, Tony had seen deep inside the investigators’ beings, and it had been dark in there, definitely not something to be toyed with.

 

Someone had informed them that Tony had rescued two women from the fallout and had been out in the worst of the toxic storm. “That information is incorrect,” Gibbs had said, facing the two men. “Agent DiNozzo and I helped one woman inside, but we never left the lobby. Everyone was in a panic, so it’s not surprising they made a mistake.”

 

When Mr. Frake had asked for the name of the woman who they had assisted, Tony smiled engagingly and said, “Gosh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t get her name. It’s like my boss says, it was crazy up there, with us getting everyone downstairs to safety. And you know, after what I went through with the plague, and my bad lungs, you wouldn’t catch me going out into a dust storm, believe me!”

 

In the end the two investigators had left, satisfied with their findings – which pretty much amounted to nothing – but Tony had a feeling this wasn’t the last time they’d ever see them.

 

Gibbs asked, as he pulled into their driveway, “How can you joke about this?”

 

“If I didn’t joke, I’d probably be hiding under the bed and shivering in fear,” Tony admitted. “Frick and Frack were just the scouts, so I imagine there are some far scarier dudes pulling their strings. Look, we don’t know if there are others like me, who got sick and recovered, but if there are, I hope the BITE guys never find them. C’mon, let’s go in. I’m dying for a nice long shower… want to join me?”

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

They were just out of the shower, and Tony was about to take Jethro – who smelled deliciously like Italian lemons – to bed, when the doorbell rang. Tony pulled on his sweatpants and ran downstairs without putting any lights on; there was enough ambient light from the streetlights, and they’d left the porch light on. He looked through the peephole and groaned when he saw Abby on the front porch. He couldn't just ignore her.

 

“Who is it?” Jethro asked.

 

Tony glanced back and saw his lover standing at the bottom of the stairs, his gun at the ready. “It’s just Abby. I’ll get rid of her.” He opened the door a couple of inches and said quickly, “Not a good time.”

 

“But this is important, Tony!”

 

Abby tried to squeeze inside but Tony blocked her. He knew her; she wouldn't leave until she’d had her say. “Just stay right there and hold that thought. Give me a minute,” Tony said, shutting the door. He rolled his eyes for Jethro’s benefit, and made shooing hand motions. Only when Jethro was out of sight did Tony open the door for Abby. He smiled apologetically and said, “Look, it’s late, and I’m about to slip into something more comfortable, if you get my drift.”

 

“But this is _really_ important,” Abby pleaded.

 

Abby seemed serious, so Tony let her inside and re-locked the door. When Abby raised an eyebrow, he shrugged and said, “We’re locking the house now. So, what’s going on?”

 

They stood close together in the dark foyer, and Abby spoke in a hushed tone. “You know Ducky gave me your samples to test, blood and tissue and that black stuff you coughed up, and, between you and me, it was really gross, and I know that’s not professional of me to say so, but it was.”

 

“Uhuh, that’s okay, Abs. McSqueamish already told me it looked like slimy black cottage cheese.”

 

“Eeew! Okay, so Ducky gave me another set of samples today, and I just finished comparing them to earlier batches, as well as to the original fallout residue, and some biological samples we got from other victims. Not to say you’re a victim, Tony, more like a survivor, and I’m dancing my happy dance you’re alive and with Gibbs, and you make a perfect couple, and–”

 

Tony raised a hand to stem the flow of words so they wouldn’t be there all night. “Get to the point before Jethro gives up on me and decides to go down to the basement to sand his boat.”

 

“Okay.” Abby took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “Okay, so my conclusion, and Timmy agrees with me, is that the force of the explosion set off a chain reaction between several biological agents and volatile chemicals, and with the force of the blast, and the intense heat, they merged and morphed into a completely new type of matter.”

 

There was a long pause. Tony asked, “Like flubber?”

 

“Oh my God, I _loved_ that movie, _The Absent-Minded Professor_ with Fred McMurray. But no, it’s more like the organism in _The Thing from Another World_.”

 

“You think my body’s been invaded by a bloodthirsty alien blob? You know what? Good night, Abby…”

 

Tony reached for the door handle but Abby quickly said, “No, listen, Tony! The substance lined your airways, and started to infiltrate your blood and organs, but when you survived, all traces of it dissipated. The actual substance has gone, the same way the fallout dissolved and became harmless in the rain, but before it… left, it made changes to your body, on a cellular level.”

 

Unsure whether that was a good thing or not, Tony asked, “So the purple haze did its damage and went away?”

 

“Oh, don’t think of it as damage, Tony! I can tell, from analyzing your recent samples, that your cells, your entire body, has an incredible regenerative ability. I checked and there are hardly _any_ survivors; almost everyone who inhaled the purple haze died within minutes. But you, you survived, and now look at you. Your body is capable of healing itself at an incredible rate. This is unprecedented.” Abby whispered, “Tony, you’re probably the only person in the universe with this _incredible_ , mind-blowing ability, and it’s so fucking dangerous, _nobody_ must know!”

 

Tony assured her he was looking over his shoulder, and Gibbs was on his six, and yes, he was taking this very seriously. Then he kissed her and sent her on her way with a sincere thank you.

 

◊ • ◊ • ◊ • ◊

 

The sex was as good as always, even though Jethro’s shoulder was still giving him trouble. He made light of it, but Tony could tell it was hurting him. The first time they came together that night, it was maybe a little out of control, with Jethro being fierce and possessive, and Tony feeling unusually needy. But after a breather and a beer, the two men settled down and made love, taking their time, enjoying lingering kisses and reassuring, sweet touches that brought them slowly to the edge and beyond.

 

Afterwards, Jethro was lying there, staring at the ceiling while absently stroking Tony’s arm. It was obvious he had something on his mind, but Tony knew Jethro couldn't be pushed into talking about whatever he was mulling over.

 

After a while, Jethro pulled Tony close, kissed his forehead and asked, “You think you’re… healed?”

 

“I told you I’m fine,” Tony said. He took a deep breath and exhaled, as if that was proof enough. The truth was, he couldn't remember the last time he’d been able to take in a lungful of air without coughing on the exhale. To be able to breathe like this, to be in such good shape, was nothing short of a miracle.

 

Jethro studied him for a long moment. “Only, you’re… different. Better.”

 

“I’m good.” Tony didn’t like the idea that Jethro thought he was different in some way.

 

“Healed,” Jethro insisted. “Inside and out.”

 

“You make it sound as though this was a gift from God instead of some weird scientific fluke, Jethro. But yeah, okay, I guess you could say I have been healed. I can…” He touched his chest. “I can _feel_ it. It’s more than that though. It’s like I can see my lungs working, and that’s not all.”

 

Jethro looked at him intently. “When we were making love…” He shook his head, as if whatever it was, was too much to fully comprehend.

 

“What?” Tony asked, worried.

 

“Your eyes changed color.”

 

“What d’you mean? Darker?”

 

Jethro slowly shook his head. “Sort of purpley pink.”

 

When Tony could form words, he blurted, “My eyes turned fucking _magenta_?”

 

“I don’t know what that is. If that’s what dark purpley pink is, then yeah!” Jethro retorted. “It happened before, when you were really sick.”

 

“It did? Was that when you were staring at me like I’d grown another head?” Tony demanded.

 

“I was looking at your eyes!”

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

“Because you were sick? You know what, I don’t care if they’re magenta or sky blue pink!”

 

“You just said they were magenta, again!” Tony scrambled off the bed.

 

“Oh, jeez,” Jethro said when Tony hurried into the bathroom to inspect his eyes.

 

They were their usual green, so Tony gave a great sigh of relief.

 

He climbed back into bed and Jethro pulled him to his side, asking, “You okay?”

 

“I guess. Trying to figure all this out, you know?”

 

“Well, I’m here for you, no matter what,” Jethro said, kissing him reassuringly. “We’ll figure it all out.”

 

Tony loved his partner’s strength, the sheer physicality of him when they had sex, but best of all, he loved it when Jethro simply held him. He felt safe and strong at the same time. Despite all that, he couldn't prevent a sigh from escaping his lips.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing,” Tony replied.

 

Jethro gave him a one-armed shake. “Spill it.”

 

After a moment, Tony said, “I forgot you wanted a corkscrew, and I was supposed to be cooking dinner, naked, and…”

 

“Hey, tell me the truth. What’s bothering you?” Jethro asked.

 

Tony shook his head, but he felt compelled to tell Jethro the truth. “I can feel everything,” he said quietly.

 

Jethro narrowed his eyes. “Everything?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What’s that mean?”

 

“If I close my eyes I can feel my blood moving around my body. I can feel my organs working, and I don’t even know what some of them are! It’s like I’ve acquired another sense.”

 

Jethro stared for a long moment before smiling. “And I thought you were a handful before,” he said lightly.

 

Relieved that Jethro seemed to accept him as he was, Tony said, with a cocky smile, “Ah, but now you have the ultra-Tony version.”

 

Leaning in, Jethro kissed Tony and said in a deep, husky voice, “I don’t care what version I get so long as I get you. All I care about is that you’re feeling good, because for a while there…” Jethro drew in a ragged breath and said, his voice full of emotion, “I thought… I thought you were going to leave me and I didn’t know how I was going to live without you.”

 

“How d’you think _I_ feel? I thought I was going to die and I’d miss having a long life with you,” Tony said, pulling his lover down for another kiss.

 

After they made sensual, life-affirming love, Jethro fell asleep holding Tony in his arms. Tony laid his head on his lover’s chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart. He slid the palm of his hand across Jethro’s chest until I was directly over his heart. With his eyes closed, he could feel it working. It was more than hearing it, or feeling the steady, thumping rhythm under the skin. It was as if Jethro’s heart was somehow connected to his own.

 

Jethro breathed deeply, and shifted, his brow furrowing from pain. Tony carefully slipped out of bed and went into the bathroom. He returned to bed with a tube of liniment, squeezed some out, and warmed it in his hands. Slowly, ever-so gently, he rubbed liniment on Jethro’s bad shoulder, gently massaging it into his muscles, laying his hands on his warm skin, kissing him gently.

 

Jethro looked at him from beneath sleepy lids, and mumbled, “What’re you doin’?”

 

“Shhh. Taking care of you. Relax. Let me…”

 

Jethro licked his lips and sighed, closing his eyes again.

 

Tony could feel the damage, the tears and damaged cartilage, the old scars and now-healed broken bones, and somehow he knew, when he closed his eyes, just where to touch, and how to make everything as good as new.

 

Jethro groaned in appreciation, and murmured, “Mmm, feels good. Really good. Tingles.”

 

“That’s the magic DiNozzo touch,” Tony said, slowly removing his hands from Jethro’s shoulder. “I’m going down to get something to eat. You want anything?”

 

“No,” Jethro said, waking up enough to send Tony a puzzled look. “Just want you,” he said, holding onto his hand.

 

“I feel like I haven’t eaten in a month,” Tony said, unable to refuse the draw of a midnight snack. He felt exhausted and famished, but somehow… he felt _good_ , he realized. A serving of that leftover lasagna would hit the spot, and wasn’t there some apple pie in the fridge? “Be back soon.”

 

“Mmm. Love ya,” Jethro murmured as he fell asleep.

 

“And I love you, Jethro,” Tony replied ever so quietly.

 

After eating half the contents of the fridge, and finally feeling satisfied, Tony returned to the bedroom. There, he once again cuddled up with Jethro, who was snoring lightly. As he lay beside his man, Tony thought about how incredibly lucky he was to know such love, and to be able to love him back in a way he’d never dreamed of. He considered Jethro’s shrapnel-damaged knee, and wondered if he could mend it, and decided that tomorrow, tomorrow he’d see if he could spread the magic a little bit more. After that, who knew what lay ahead?

 

◊ • ◊ end ◊ • ◊

Once again, I’d like to thank Jacie for running the NCIS Reverse Bang,  
and I thank to Firesign10 for betaing this story!

Enjoy the other NCIS Reverse Bang stories.

And… comments are always appreciated.

 


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